Pieces of a chess game
by Beth.R.G
Summary: Letting go of magic was easier than she thought. Working with and for Mycroft was simple and uncomplicated until Sherlock died. Trust a Holmes to shift the ground under your feet, and another to question your life choices, even beyond the grave. Slowly updated. Chapter 14 is M rated. NEWS: Chapter 1 - 16 to be re-written
1. The Fake Flatmate

**Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

This is a WIP, all comments and opinions are welcome. It will be updated as regularly as possible and will cover as canon as possible from after Sherlock's death, covering the months we did not see, until HLV.

Note 14/12/2018: Edited, unbeta'd

 **Chapter 1: The Fake Flatmate**

The stench of old pipes was still in her nostrils when she emerged from the underground. Hermione adjusted her scarf tighter around her neck. Cold and commuting, the only two things she missed from apparating. She took Marylebone road towards Baker Street, her mind on her prospective flatmate, John Watson. John had been part of London's pop culture while he wrote about his partner's - and according to some, lover - Sherlock Holmes. After Sherlock's suicide, the tabloids had focused on his life and lies, and eventually, forgot about John.

She stopped close to the end of the street and looked across the road, to number 221. The advertisement was an old-fashioned one, on paper. It might have gone unnoticed in these times of apps and websites, but she had known where to look.

It was her job.

Their first conversation, the day before, had gone smoothly. A ten minutes phone call, with the usual questions and answers to arrange a viewing. It had been pleasant and easy enough although she could hear in his voice the surprise of receiving the call. Today she had to tread carefully. She had too much information for someone that only knew John Watson as a blog writer.

Hermione looked to her right and crossed the road. In front of the chromed numbers of 221, she rearranged her clothes and her hair. She needed to make a good first impression, everything depended on her walking out with a signed lease contract. With a glance at her watch, she saw it was five minutes away from the agreed time and climbed the two steps. She barely got hold of the knocker when the door opened revealing a petite woman with a kind smile on her face.

"Oh dear, you are Hermione right? You are here to see the room, John told me you'd come today."

"Yes, Madam. That's me."

"Oh, but get inside darling, this wind will get to your bones if you stand up there any longer."

The woman gripped Hermione by the arm and gently but firmly guided her to the back of the house, complaining about the weather and how it made her hips worse. Hermione took off her coat while the old lady got the purple teapot from the stove and put it next to a sugar bowl and two cups on the table.

"… Luckily for me, John is a doctor. Tea?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs…"

"Oh, how rude of me. I am Mrs Hudson, the landlady. I told John to put the add somewhere, I am hopeless with these things. So nice to meet you."

"I am Hermione, Hermione Black. A pleasure to meet you." Hermione took the cup Mrs Hudson was offering with a smile and took a sip, letting the beverage warm her body. She then turned to the empty door and hall. "Do you know when Doctor Watson will be here, Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh, he is upstairs. He is just, you know…" She lowered her voice. "After Sherlock and everything... He rarely goes out except for his meetings with his therapist and grocery shopping. He doesn't even have a job."

"I heard about it. Well, it was everywhere, it must've been awful." She drank from her cup glimpsing Mrs Hudson, whose eyes had gone glassy at the mention of the deceased detective. "Especially given their relationship."

"Oh, they never admitted it. I told them thousands of times I didn't care. Men."

Hermione chuckled. From what she had read on John's blog, and despite his problems in finding women he liked; he was a healthy, convinced heterosexual. He had a weird fascination with Sherlock, but there were no signs it went further than just admiration. Sherlock? Not enough data points to draw a conclusion. The noise of footsteps coming from the staircase interrupted her thoughts. Seconds after a man entered the kitchen and stood next to the doorway. His hands clenched hanging by his sides and imperceptibly shifting on his feet.

So this is Dr John H. Watson.

He was clean shaven and the shirt and trousers he was wearing were of good quality, but full of creases. He had tried his best, but months of voluntary confinement were difficult to miss. Hermione had seen the John of six months ago in articles and photos she had found during her research. The man she had seen in those, while not typically handsome, had been attractive. She could see how his military acquired posture was alluring for women, intriguing even. Fairer strands were starting to decorate his dirty blonde hair around the temples, adding to the appeal. But the person before her was a mere shadow. He was far too thin, the clothes baggy around him. His eyes too sad, the mark under them of a deep purple contrasting with the pale of his skin. Hermione drew her gaze discretely away from his form to his face.

"Hi, sorry, it's ridiculous I'm late in my own house." He walked the few steps that separated him from Hermione and offered her his hand. Hermione took it, with a firm but cordial handshake. "John Watson."

Hermione smiled at him, dismissive. "Hermione Black, pleasure to meet you at last."

"Same here." He made a small gesture with his hands in the general direction of the hall. "Shall we?"

Hermione nodded and got up while Mrs Hudson offered to get them some tea. John thanks the woman and gestured for Hermione to follow him across the small hall and up the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson seems a lovely person."

"She is. A force of nature." He reached the small landing and opened one of the doors. "Here, please come in."

The room she entered to was cramped and cluttered. Papers, laptops and books stacked in precarious equilibrium were strewn around. A thick layer of dust covered every surface but the brown armchair: John had touched nothing else in a very long time.

Hermione went pass John and strolled around the living room, inspecting the wall and the shelves, while her hand roamed every surface she could reach without bending. While her fingers touched the leather material of the couch on her right, she heard John's nervous babble.

"This is the common area. I swear it is bigger than it looks. I haven't got around cleaning it yet..."

She was half-listening, as a broad, yellow smile on the wall had caught her attention. At first, it looked like some sort of modern art. After a closer look, she saw the small cavities around the paint.

"Are those bullet holes?" Hermione turned her head to John, apparently lost in his own thoughts, startling him.

"Em, yes, they are." John cleared his throat. "I suppose you know who used to live here."

"I do, Doctor. I read your blog." He looked surprised at her, and Hermione realised how tactless she might have sounded. "I promise I'm not a crazy fan-girl and that I'm not stalking you. Really. I just want a place to live."

He stared at her, blankly. She could almost hear how the wheels in his head were working to answer her. Hermione was holding her breath. She may had ruined her chances.

"You are an improvement then."

Hermione saw him giving her a small grin and felt herself returning it. She could still see the pain in his eyes, but his demeanour was calmer. I might stay after all. John motioned her to accompany him to the next room. "Here we have the kitchen…" John explained. He extended his hand to the back of the room. "And there's the bathroom and what would be… your… bedroom."

Hermione looked at the kitchen without actual interest. She never cooked. She only needed a few things to survive: a kettle, a microwave, a fridge, and menus of nearby restaurants. She left John where he was and wandered through the space, looking at the dusty microscope on the table.

"I don't really cook, so the kitchen is pretty much unused. It's equipped with the usual."

"Is a microscope a kitchen appliance?" She muttered, looking through the lens and turning the right wheel. She heard a noise and raised her head to John. The look on his face made her let go of the microscope and took a step back. John cleared his throat as if he were trying to keep the tears at bay and sighed.

"It was Sherlock's. The kitchen table was... his lab." His hand touched an empty Petri dish, longingly.

"Look, if you are not sure about this, I can just leave. No hurt feelings."

The man shook his head, with slightly bright eyes she guessed he did not want her to see.

"It seems a lifetime away, but he's been gone for just six months. And…" His voice broke. She saw him inhaling deeply and blinking. He bowed his head even further down while his left hand went to his eyes to bat some treacherous tears away. "I am sorry, Miss Black."

"No, please, Hermione." She went around the table and squeezed his arm lightly, as a comforting gesture.

He gave her a tiny smile, and she turned her back to him, giving him some space to gather himself. How could she explain to him how much she understood him, how much she had lost? That her nights were plagued with nightmares that never ceased. Or that the names of those she left behind were branded in her heart as much as 'mudblood' was in her skin. Now it was her turn to open her eyes to dry their corners, from where fresh tears were about to spill, and she opened the fridge only to close it again. A foul odour had come from inside, and she had to repress her nausea.

"Why does the fridge smell like if there were dead animals inside?"

"Probably there were at some point. I hadn't notice."

"How can you not? It smells awful!"

"Well, that fridge has seen heads, thumbs, livers..." His voice died. "Having second thoughts?"

"Well, bullet holes, lab kit instead of a bouquet, and a fridge with a dead animal and-slash-or human parts." She smiled at him. "I must be crazy, but I am in."

"Don't you want to see the rest?"

"Do you have corpses in any of the other rooms?"

"I haven't checked." John gave the first real smile since she knew him.

"I'll try my luck."

"Ooh-ooh!"

Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray full of butter biscuits, tea, and cups.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. I think you have a new tenant."

The woman left the tray on the coffee table, and her hands found head other in a gesture that could only be defined as delighted.

"That's lovely dear. It would be so nice to see a woman's touch around here. But we might need to clean; John wouldn't let me touch a thing."

"I thought you weren't our housekeeper."

"Nonsense John. Pour her a nice cuppa while I go to fetch the key of the other flat to store all of this"

The old woman darted out of the room while John served the tea.

"No milk for me Doctor."

"Just John. Now we're flatmates, Hermione."

* * *

The trip back to her old apartment was as dreadful as it could be for someone that hated small, closed, underground spaces. She gripped the overhead bar in the overcrowded car while revisiting her afternoon at Baker street. She was curious about the carelessness of her new flatmate. The conversation over tea had covered politics, gossip about the royals, the roadworks that were causing havoc in the traffic and the new policies on immigration. However, neither of them had asked about her job. She knew that at some point, Mrs Hudson had wanted to ask about her financial situation, but she guessed that seeing John relaxed, she had let it slip. The mechanical tube voice announced her stop, and she got out of the car and the station immersed in her thoughts. So much, she did not notice the black car parked in front of her address. Hermione dialled the number of the Chinese place two streets down and ordered her usual Kung pao chicken and spring rolls while climbing the flight of stairs to her flat. She hung up and reached for her keys when she saw her door ajar.

She pocketed her phone and grabbed her wand from its holster. Pushing the door quietly, she entered the room wand first with her back against the wood and turned to the living room. In silence, Hermione advanced until she saw a familiar umbrella resting against one of her cabinets. She groaned lowering her wand and turned on the lights.

"I could have killed you, you know. You have to stop trespassing other people's homes. Your power complex is just ridiculous sometimes, Mycroft."

She slammed the door and left her wand next to her gun on the chest next to it. She went to the pantry and took two glasses and a bottle of red wine and filled them. The man on the armchair was wearing an impeccable three-piece suit and a sardonic smile matching. The chain of his old-fashioned pocket watch glinted under the light when he checked the time.

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't."

"True. You've always been a drama queen."

She handed him one of the glasses and sat on the couch facing him. Mycroft smiled slightly before raising his glass in a silent toast and took a sip. She imitated him, waiting for him to talk, as usual. It was a soft way to establish the hierarchy in their relationship: he speaks; she listens.

"How was the meeting?"

"As planned. You should have seen him, Mycroft. John is a mess, and the flat is as Sherlock left it."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Sighing, he stared at the movements of the wine when he twirled the glass. "I never thought my brother would leave such a lasting impression."

Hermione did not answer. Despite having worked for Mycroft for years, she knew little about the younger Holmes. She knew about their strained relationship, but Mycroft had always been fiery protective of his privacy, and his brother's. Despite that, it was no secret the lengths he had gone to protect him. That's why Sherlock's death and Mycroft's stoically even in her presence had always bothered her. But she owed Mycroft too much as to doubt his grief and coping mechanisms.

"I wonder, how someone like my brother was able to overlook the so obvious defects of good, old doctor. Sherlock was never fond of people, I never imagined he would choose someone so..." His tone, condescending, made her clench her jaw.

"Ordinary?" Mycroft looked at her. "Well, maybe it was time that one of the Holmes brothers did it."

"Touché." He raised his wine in a mock toast and drowned the rest of it.

"He could've asked you the same thing. The great Mycroft burdened himself with someone belonging to the fairer sex."

"Oh please, Hermione, don't you compare yourself with John Watson."

"A compliment? I am flattered. "

He poured himself another glass while she eyed at him over the rim of hers, studying him. She had become colder and impassive with the years, but she would never reach Mycroft's disregard for feelings, in general. However, when it came to Sherlock, sometimes she could see through his facade. Sending her, an MI-7 field agent to watch over John, was one of them.

"What do you want me to do next, Mycroft?"

He left the glass on the table and massaged his temple with middle and index finger of both hands, closing his eyes, as if having all of Great Britain's secrets in his head was actually physical pain. Hermione left her glass only to round the table and position herself at the back of the armchair. Her small hands found Mycroft's shoulders and massaged the tense notches in the muscles there, feeling the man relax under her pressure.

"Monitor him. Make sure he moves on."

"You care about John Watson now?"

He huffed, incredulous. "Even if I've tried to get rid of banalities such as sentiment, human nature is still my nature, and Sherlock was still my brother. He would never forgive me if something were to happen to John."

She gave him a friendly last squeeze and steadied her hands, and she he could see that he had closed his eyes. With the dim light, she could distinguish the lines on his forehead and around the eyes. He looked much older than he was, and she could not help feel bad for him. Even if he had chosen this power-driven life, he looked more and more drained with each passing day. The part of her that looked up to this man as the good person she knew he was, ached for him. Especially now he had lost the person he had cared about the most in the world.

"Do you want to stay the night? My spare bedroom is available."

He smiled and opened his eyes. He touched one of Hermione's hand in his shoulders still, before rising from his seat.

"Although tantalising, I am afraid I have to decline. Important business tomorrow, outside in the mainland. I'll stay there for a week or two. Can I count on you to give me a full report when I am back?"

"Sure. Shall I record John's bowel movements?" She smiled, but she let him know with an arched brow that she was serious. "I won't disappoint you."

"I know. You are the best agent I have."

He went to the front door, gathering his coat from the arm of the couch and his umbrella.

"You realise which day is in a couple of months, don't you?"

Hermione tensed. "Regrettably, yes. I do."

"They have asked for confirmation, again."

"And you've said no, like every year, right?"

"This time is different. I know Sirius is going."

"I don't see how would that affect me."

She had never gone to the second of May celebrations, so she saw no need to change that. Sirius had never attended either, but for some reason, he had been required to this year. And she understood, him being the liaison between the MI-7, MI-6 and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and still a very much active wizard in the community. Hermione, on the other hand, had lived a perfectly comfortable existence in the most muggle-like way. Magic was something to be used during missions, and even there, she liked to relay in muggle equipment.

"I told Sirius. I am not going, no matter what he does. That's his choice, not mine."

"We'll talk about it once I am back." he said taking a look to his pocket watch. "I am utterly irritated of that Minister of yours, pestering about you not going every single year."

"I thought he might have grasped the message after the first five non-answered invitations."

Mycroft looked at her and then smiled. He opened the door, and before disappearing, he promised he would to get her a safeguard. With that, Hermione was left alone with many thoughts and a half-full bottle of wine. She dropped herself on the couch and had another glass of wine while waiting for the dinner. She hated these first months of the year, only because they led to May, and May meant dealing with the stupid invitations to the Commemoration Ball. A cynical laugh escaped her lips. Fancy to remember the dead once a year with a spectacular feast while all they had fought for was not even close to becoming true.

Hermione sipped on her wine while she thought about her nineteen-year-old self. Would she be as astonished about her as she was about that naïve schoolgirl that thought she knew everything? Memories of resentment, hate, love and pain came flooding, as every time she remembered the post-war days. How her perfectly crafted world had crumbled around her when the world gave her a taste of reality. How her ideal future had dissolved as a bath bomb in water. Disappointment after disappointment, Hermione Granger, the war heroine, the brains behind the Chosen-One, started to withdraw until one day she disappeared into thin air.

She took her phone and scrolled down her contact list until she reached the 'S'.

'Hi, there! This is the personal number of the best thing that could happen to London's nightlife, Sirius Black. I probably won't hear this message, so keep calling. Cheers.'

Of course, he would not answer. Hermione let a sigh before speaking.

"Hi, it's me. Um..." The exhaustion of the day weighed on her, and the hand that was not occupied with the phone went to her eyes, blinding her momentary and letting her sight rest. "I was wondering if you were free to have dinner one of these days? I haven't seen you in a while, and… Well, give me a ring. Okay. Bye"

Hanging the call, Hermione dropped the phone to the couch, and let her head slid to the back of her seat, closing her eyes. The doorbell rang, and she got up to take the warm food from the delivery man. With the plastic fork, she ate directly from the box. While she chewed the perfectly cooked chicken, she realised that she needed to compartmentalise, she could not let the situation get to her. The most important thing now was to appear as ordinary as John thought she was and made sure she completed this mission. May was still a few months away, and as soon as the second was done, they would leave her alone until the following year. The only thing she felt guilty for, was Sirius. He had been shielding her from everyone since she left, at the expense of lying to Harry. He had taken care of her and helped her as a father would do. He had been the one to introduce her to Mycroft, hired her for the MI-7 and kept everything related to the war in the past. He had even worked out a protection scheme for her, so the MInistry could only contact her through him and Mycroft.

Everything had worked perfectly, but apparently, the deal had an expiration date.


	2. The ephemeral bliss

**Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

This is a WIP, all comments and opinions are welcome. It will be updated as regularly as possible and will cover as canon as possible from after Sherlock's death, covering the months we did not see, until HLV.

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter. I hope you like it J

 **Chapter 2: The ephemeral bliss**

When the cab pulled in front of 221 the next afternoon, the first thing she noticed was that the windows were open and the curtains nowhere to be seen. She paid the trip and the chauffeur helped her unload all the boxes and suitcases she had done the night before with clothes and whatnot, to at least make her room seem like home, and some spare boxes to store Sherlock's belongings. Later during her visit, the day before, John had unlocked the door of her future bedroom only to excuse himself to the loo, without looking inside or offering for a cleaning, as he had done before. She understood it would probably take some time for John to get used to seeing the door ajar again. The room behind it was eclectic. The furniture was old but well taken care of, so she guessed that it had come with the flat. The decorations, however, seemed to be all the detective's prerogative. The sword hanging on the wall next to the window, the element table with a fairly expensive frame, a judo certificate above the bed: the room had screamed Holmes in every corner. There was something oddly intimate in the sight of his dressing gown carelessly discarded over the armchair at the back, in the faint scent that lingered in the air, even after months of him not being in that space. Later, in her way out, her thoughts had wondered inevitably to John, broken and depressed John; and to Mycroft, that had continued with his life as if the corpse that lied on the pavement was not his own brother.

She approached the door still eyeing her things on the street and knocked. Mrs Hudson opened the door with that everlasting smile on her face and carrying with her the smell of carpet cleaner while calling John for help.

"Good afternoon dear. We were tiding up."

"Good afternoon Mrs Hudson. You shouldn't have."

"Oh, nonsense. I couldn't leave you there with all that dust. John wouldn't leave me before." She saw how the older woman shifted almost imperceptibly "The bedroom is still untidied, though…"

"That's perfectly fine," Said Hermione, taking Mrs Hudson's hand in her right one, seeing John coming down the stairs with a box in his hands, watching carefully his steps "I'll do it myself. Afternoon John"

The man lifted his gaze and cracked a smile. He came closer to the door and eyed to the boxes on the street, where more than half of them had the word "Books" written across the lid, lifting his eyebrows.

"Hi. Is that all? Books?"

"I have clothes too, somewhere."

"I'll leave this and carry them upstairs"

"I can do it, John, there's no need to …"

"It's nothing, so please, let me help" Hermione saw how he left the box in front of a door that she guessed led to another room, probably storage. He stood there for a few seconds, looking at the inside and letting a long sigh, and she was so focused on him that she barely registered Mrs Hudson talking to her.

"Sorry, I got distracted for a moment"

"I was saying, that you take off your coat and start bringing everything in while I make you a cuppa."

"That'd be lovely, thank you"

After clearing the sidewalk and a warm tea with biscuits, Hermione and John started carrying everything upstairs. He took some stacked boxes and made his way up, while she took the largest suitcase and trailed after John. When she entered into the living room, she discovered that the walls were not as dark as she had thought and that all the surfaces in the room were brighter without the thick layer of dust upon them. Gone were the microscope and the largest part of the papers that the night before had been strewn across the floor, the main table and the hideous chairs coming with it were clean and placed, and there was an empty space in those shelves of the bookcase that she presumed, had been filled with Sherlock's belongings. As a final touch, there were some plants complementing with their tones to the wine colour of the painted paper and, to her amusement, the skull, the bullet holes, and the yellow smiley face were still there, making her smile her smile.

"I've emptied the table in the living room, just in case you need it," Said John leaving a box in said table.

"That's so thoughtful of you John. Thank you" She started taking books out of the boxes and stacked them in different piles depending on how often she would be using them. The box with her magic books, however, was tucked inside the beaded bag in her room, safely stored in one of her drawers. Being her reading the spine of the books and occasionally opening them by the index, she wasn't paying attention to John, who was standing awkwardly next to his armchair, looking at her. She heard how he cleared his throat and lifted her gaze, finding him taking off invisible fluffs from the fabric.

"I looked you up online last night"

She let go a laugh. She left the book she had in her hand in the pile for storage in the living room, and took another one, only to drop it in another pile "And what did you find? Nothing too embarrassing I hope."

"'Magic and Myths during the Norman England' came often."

"Oh, that. It is a boring thesis I did some years ago, for a specialised publishing company. There are way better public friendly history books out there."

"I also saw 'Runic influence in modern language: Futhorc as case example'. Five stars in good reads."

"I am quite proud of that one."

"So you are what? A historian?"

"Yeah… I studied linguistics at uni, then I did some research in history."

"Sounds interesting."

Hermione, that was browsing through the index of the last book, only hummed in response, and heard the heels of John's shoes against the wooden floor while he went down for the last suitcases. She had to remember to thank Anthea for the help, the IT people really had outdone them this time. When she proposed 'freelance writer' as a job option, the main problem was finding titles John would not be interested in. Apparently, history had been a good choice.

Well into the evening, and with the kitchen, bathroom and living room sorted out, John announced that he would be going to the shops to buy some dinner for both, and Hermione knew that at least half of the motivation behind the offering was that she might be needing to start moving things to the bedroom. Wanting to spare John from unnecessary pain, she moved all the boxes as quickly as she could inside the room and closed behind her. And there she stood, for a good fifteen minutes, because even if she had faced threats and situations of all kinds, cleaning the belongings of a dead man proved to be something entirely different. She didn't know where to start. She emptied one of her own suitcases untidily on the bed, and left it open on the floor, in the middle of the room, and started with the expensive suits hanging in the wardrobe, to continue with the chest of drawers near the bed, emptying them: from t-shirts that appeared to be unworn (some of them with the price tag on. Sherlock was such a posh.) to perfectly folded ties, handkerchiefs, socks. It was in the last one where her hand found a small space between the end of the drawer and what was supposed to be the bottom. She took it out and sat on the floor, taking a letter opener in her hand and inserting it in the crack, lifting the wooden layer. She had never met Sherlock, but she knew Mycroft and she had read John's blog, so she had created this picture of a reserved, hyper-rational man, that prided himself in the safety of unattachment. And yet, there, in a false bottom in his underwear drawer, were a bunch of photos, barely twenty of them, some old, some fairly new, perfectly dated and conserved. She scrambled through her boxes, looking for the stationery leftovers she was sure she had brought, took everything out from an antique flowery green folder and placed the photos inside, carefully. John's voice from the kitchen startled her, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest, as she would have been doing something forbidden just by seeing those photos that so evidently Sherlock wanted to keep secret. She opened the drawer again and left the folder there, safe. It was not in her to betray someone's wishes, even after death.

* * *

John and Hermione settled into an easy routine in the dying days of January. Hermione, having been cleared from all kinds of immediate duty with the MI-7 until further notice by Mycroft, spent her days reading and writing about whatever she found interesting, and her nights documenting John's day and his progress. Although he appeared to be relaxed in her presence, she could see his body language change every time that she did something in a Sherlock-like way. The first time, the same night she moved in, knackered from a moving day, she had let herself drowned in the inviting black leather sofa in front of the fire, grasping a book in her hands. She had closed her eyes, resting her head in the back of the armchair, but was forced to open them again when she heard a deep intake of breath. In front of her, with eyes slightly brilliant, was John. She had smiled at him and stand up immediately, wishing him a good night only to disappear into her room and spend a sleepless night looking at her surroundings, suddenly feeling as in intruder. And although the next morning, a weary-eyed John had told her that he was sorry for making her feel uncomfortable and that this was her house as much as his, she had refrained from sitting in the leather chair again.

From that moment on, they had been trying to work around each other. John, because he had too many memories in that flat with someone totally different. Hermione, because was trying to avoid anything that could mean John wanted her out. So he would try not to flinch every time she saw her at the kitchen table in the same spot the microscope used to be, and she'd try not to leave the door of her room open.

She had been enjoying one of the perks of Baker Street, jogging in Regent´s Park, when she got the first call from Sirius in what looked like ages. She came to a halt near the lake, breathless, and pressed the button of her headphones for answering.

"Who is this?"

"Hello to you too darling"

"I am not the one that has gone missing for weeks without a call, daddy dear"

"'The lady doth protest too much, methinks'. And you are spending way too much time with Mycroft"

"Not at all. He is in some kind of 'rule the world' summit or something of sorts. What about you?"

"Do you really want to know who am I spending my time with?"

"Gross" She came near the exit of the park, in front of Clarence terrace. She could not help but smile when she heard the man's laugh at the other end of the line. She took Baker Street only to see John getting in number 221.

"Anyway, are you free tomorrow night? I want to invite my favourite girl to a nice, ridiculously expensive dinner. And then you can tell me everything about this John Watson you are taking care of"

"It is not that! It's field work. Surveillance. And yes, tomorrow sounds great."

"Perfect. I have to go, love. I am supposed to meet with Kingsley for some stupid paperwork"

"It's everything alright?"

"Don't worry about it, Hermione. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you"

"Love you too"

That same afternoon, her plans for a nice bath and a tea went downhill when John informed her that, calling through her phone in the countertop, was someone called 'Mike'. She had gone with her dressing gown and her hair in a towel to the kitchen and had started the kettle before picking up, smirking.

"Hello there Mike. Long time, how is everything?"

"Can't you go elsewhere? I despise that name" Mycroft's voice sounded tired and bothered. Exactly the kind of Mycroft she liked when she was bored, and how she loved to hear him squirm. She poured the hot water into two cups, holding her laugh.

"I am so glad. I was just making some tea for John and me"

"For the love of God, Hermione"

"I told you about John, didn't I? The doctor and my new flatmate?" She handed John his cup of tea, that he took. She could almost see the exasperated look, the fingers over closed eyes. She took the terminal away from her ear.

"I am going to talk in my room so you can continue your reading, John"

"It's fine if you want to stay"

"Worry not. See you later." She spoke to the speaker while walking to her room, and locking the door. "You were saying, Mike?"

"Could you behave like a grown-up?"

"You are no fun, Mike," she said with special emphasis in his name. The sigh on the other side told her that Mycroft was most likely rolling his eyes and that particular way he had of doing everything: overdramatic, and she let go a giggle.

"Oh come one. This is the most exciting thing I've done in two weeks"

"I take that everything is quiet then."

"I am bored. How was the trip?"

"Deliciously uneventful. Anything to report?"

"Not much. I was going to drop by yours."

"No need. I've heard you are having dinner with Sirius tomorrow" His voice was casual, but there was some heaviness in it, the tone he always used to speak about business.

"True. How do you know that? I barely spoke with him this morning."

"I'll be joining you if it is not inconvenient. There are a couple of things we need to discuss." She frowned at that and she could feel herself tensing up. Normally, Sirius and Mycroft in the same room meant nothing good.

"Is it...delicate?"

"In the extreme. But is in the difficulties that we strive dear"

"That doesn't answer me"

"Anyhow, in other order of things," She closed her eyes and let a sigh. In moments like this is when she wanted to punch him for being so him "Anthea informed me of John's precarious financial status."

"Oh. I thought you were at it. That's what you said"

"We are. I'll have news for you in the dinner. See you tomorrow"

And with that, with hundreds of questions running through her head, she knew that the next twenty-four hours were bound to be very long.

* * *

The next night she put on some classic jeans with a burgundy cashmere jumper and black heels. She was finishing her makeup when John arrived home from the grocery store. He left the bags on the table and looked to the open bathroom door.

"You look fantastic."

Hermione looked at him in the mirror and gave him a smile.

"Thank you, John. I am going to have dinner with my father and he has this stupid habit of taking me to the weirdest places where I am either overdressed or underdressed, so I thought this was a good middle ground." She took a black scrunchie from the first drawer and went to her room to retrieve her trench coat and handbag, twisting her hair in a messy bun. "I won't be late though, and I promise not to wake you up."

"No worries, it is not like if I slept that much to begging with."

She arrived at the kitchen and stood next to him. When she was so close, she could see the tiredness in his features, and the pain and sadness behind his eyes. In days like this, she understood Sherlock a bit better: there were very few things in this world that you hated more than a vulnerable John Watson. She took the oats from one of the bags and stored in the cabinet above her head.

"I could lend you one of my books. The treatise about medieval languages was our go-to sleeping pill at uni"

He chuckled slightly, while moving around storing the groceries, and only the sound made her heart flip. She wished him good night and while she hailed a cab, she thought that maybe things were really going to be alright.

The cab left her in front of the Zuma restaurant. She descended and approached the maître, asking for the private room booked under "Black". He gestured her towards a narrow hallway to her left and she walked the few meter until she was facing a metal door. Opening it, she came to find probably the two most important men in her life, waiting for her, each one nursing a glass. Sirius got up in all his height when he saw her, and in a split of a second was hugging her, stretching her against his body. She felt the familiar aroma that she had learnt to love in all those years and kissed him on the cheek.

"I swear you look more and more beautiful every time I see you."

"You are just fishing for compliments. But I'll indulge you: you look very handsome as well." She moved to Mycroft, still sat in the chair and kissed his cheek, something she only dared when alone "I am glad to see you are alive and well."

"I am glad to see that your sense of style has remained intact after living with Dr Watson."

She went to the other side of the table while taking off her coat and ordering wine. She sat down and smiled at them, while the waiter poured Mycroft's white choice in a stemmed glass.

"For your information, John is the perfect gentleman. And Mrs Hudson is lovely. She always has a cup of tea warm for me in the afternoons. So…" She pushed the sleeves of his jumper up, and looked at the older men "How are we going to do this?"

The reaction in her interlocutors was almost immediate. Sirius stood straight in his chair, while Mycroft left his glass on the table and went to his business stance, but still reclined in his chair, legs crossed.

"As you might remember, I told you about a certain invitation that arrived at my office."

"Yes, and I told you that it wasn't happening. Is that really why I am here?" She turned to Sirius

"Actually, the situation has suffered a turn of events"

"Before we tell you this, Hermione…" Sirius took her hand over the table, prompting her to take her gaze out of Mycroft to focus it on the him "…I need you to know, we have tried to avoid it."

Hermione felt a shiver running down her spine. She saw, confused, the look the men shared before Mycroft took out of his suitcase a black folder and pushed it towards her. In the lid of the folder, in red printed letters, was her real name, Granger, and the "top secret" label.

"Things there haven't been going well in the magic world. Even after all these years the politics haven't changed as drastically as we might have thought after the war"

"Figures."

"The problem is; the people are becoming restless. Neither of the respondents in the Government thought about the consequences of some rash decisions they made, now there are some parts of the society which are afraid of being under a corrupt Government. Their image is completely damaged, but yours… You are The Hermione Granger, the brains of the golden trio, the muggle-born that risked her life. You leaving, has practically given them the ammunition to criticize the Ministry. So they thought that if you were to come back and if you showed your support, it might give them a bit of time."

"Why would I want to come back?"

"I told them you wouldn't"

"So?"

"They do have learned a couple of things along the way, as it seems." Mycroft opened the folder and there was a magical photo of her. It was blurry as if had been taken out of a security footage, but it was clear that the person in the image was her. "They have evidence that you have revealed to a muggle about your condition. Not only that, they are also pushing aggression charges"

She felt all her blood leaving her face, and Sirius put in her hand his own whiskey, that she drowned without too much thinking. Dismissing the waiter that had come for them to order the food with a gesture, Mycroft pointed to a part of the report she was holding.

"In one of your missions, a couple of months back, you were cleared to use magic. As the typical protocol, you also had to erase the memory of the ones you found along your way as always. And in a very unlike you fashion, you forgot one." She almost recoiled in her seat to his tone, reproachful and full of disdain. With unsteady hands, she turned the page to come face to face with a mug shot of a teenager "Luca Ricci. He was the closest to the explosion, he barely had pulse when you found him and you did a rookie mistake and thought that he was dead"

"Mycroft" Interjected Sirius, who then stood beside Hermione with a protective hand on her shoulder

"Sirius, I know it, she knows it. She is not stupid; she knows when she has made a mistake." Mycroft punctuated his statement with a strong coup with his umbrella in the floor. He came forward and looked directly into Sirius' eyes, only to shift them to Hermione, that felt tiny and embarrassed under his gaze. "The problem is not that he was left alive, the problem is that he saw her. All that it took was the gibberish of a dying man to the carabinieri talking about a woman with English accent for the Interpol engines to move. We found the CCTV footage but not even me could avoid the Aurors to get the images. So as it stands, the alternative to going to the ball is a trip to Azkaban"

He grasped his tumbler and took a long sip of it. Meanwhile, Hermione turned herself to Sirius, who looked down at her and gave her a reassuring smile. Her brain, filled with regret, soon started to process Mycroft´s words. Someone that knew her, probably one of her former friends that knew she would not come back by her own accord, had tried to force her hand. With Azkaban no less. The magic twirling in her veins became restless, and her anger started to burn in her fingertips, hoping for a release. She took Sirius' hand out of her, and stood up to pace around the room, furious.

"I cannot believe they are blackmailing me. Whose idea was this?"

"It was Malfoy's, but Kingsley backed it up immediately. He called me yesterday for my opinion. He made a beautiful speech of how 'Hermione would be like the balsam that would heal the wounds of the society, even if she doesn´t know it yet'. I told him that I couldn't believe he had stooped so low"

"Politicians do it all the time, Mr Black. Only this time it has been directed to us"

"Joke is on them. Now they have a new enemy. No one messes up with my girl."

"Agreed"

Hermione, that was still pacing, suddenly felt a rush of gratitude for them. She came to Sirius and let him embrace her, whispering in her ear that everything was going to be fine. She separated from him and went to Mycroft, that was eying her. She came to her chair in from of him and looked at him.

"Your mistake could have cost us one of our better agents. I expect more from you in the future"

"I know. It won't happen again"

He gave a nod and pressed a button on the table to call the waiter, who brought with him several dishes of food. And even if they have assured her that nothing would happen to her, she had her doubts. Her hyperactive mind was already imagining different outcomes and positions where she might be "invited" to participate, and not even the fact that Mycroft had given her the address and time for an interview for John had lifted her spirits. If they have gone to these lengths only for having her in a ball, Merlin knows what they would do if they needed something else from her. And suddenly, she was not hungry anymore.

* * *

Hi everyone. I know it has been a long time, but I've been looking for a meta (without luck). This has been very difficult to write because even if I've seen Sherlock several times, I can't yet get John's character in a way that is realistic. I was hoping to get a beta before publishing this, so I could give you something worth reading, but as things are, this the best I could do after weeks of re-reading and editing. So I hope you like it. If you think that something could be better, suggestions, rotten tomatoes, anything, review or PM me, I am always happy to answer and make this story better.

In case someone is interested in being my beta for this story, just drop me a PM.

Beth


	3. A case of identity

**Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

This is a WIP, all comments and opinions are welcome. It will be updated as regularly as possible, and will cover as canon as possible from after Sherlock's death, covering the months we did not see, until S4 (hopefully, and with variations. See Notes at the end).

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter. I hope you like chapter

* * *

 **Chapter 3: A case of identity**

"When you told me about going out, I thought you meant tea and biscuits"

"Civilian life is making you soft, Mary"

The other women let go a sarcastic laugh. Her short, blond hair was held in place by a headband that was leaving some strands out. Around her neck was the strident yellow ear protection, contrasting with the deep blue of her shirt. She was eyeing Hermione dissembling her gun while masterfully recharging her own, with an arched eyebrow. Meanwhile, Hermione gazed over her dummy, 50 meters away from her, and let a somewhat angry huff when she saw that one of her bullets had gone across the carotid. She ripped her own protection, throwing it to the table in front of her, dropping the unloaded training gun and reaching for her towel. She heard a loud string of shoots, and she turned to see the perfect score of the other woman, that in turn smiled at her as if saying, 'How was that for a softie?'. A comfortable silence settled between them while they dried their sweat, changed their tops and left the equipment for later collection. They sat down on the bench, sipping water, and Hermione, with her head resting on the wall behind her, could feel Mary's gaze on her.

"So," Hermione opened one eye, seeing as the other woman was disinterestedly tapping away on her phone "when are you going to tell me what is really going on? I doubt your flatmate is so infuriating as to demand Mycroft for a whole gallery for you."

"It's not John." She stood up and stretched, hearing her bones crack and her muscles tense. The sole idea of John being the root of anyone's problems was laughable "If everyone were like John, this world would be a much better place"

"Do we fancy the doctor now, Miss 'I-don't-do-relationships'?"

"Merlin no" Hermione reached for her phone and scrolled down the hidden files the Mycroft had given to her before starting the assignment. "He has this soldier something in the way he moves that is kind of appealing, but not my type. Here." She had found the photo of John that apparently had been taken through a security camera, and handed Mary the phone. The other women swipe to the right, looking through the other photos, humming with appreciation.

"He might not be yours, but he is mine"

Hermione chuckled and snatched her phone, discarding it inside her open handbag.

"Down girl. He is still recovering."

Mary let a sigh out while reaching for her coat.

"Why do all the good ones have to be gay?"

"I am pretty sure he is not gay. It's just I don't think he is in the mood yet"

"And I think, you are dodging the topic"

"You were the one that brought John up!" She put her scarf around her neck, and sighed, leaving her hands at the end of it, playing with the small fringes. "The Ministry caught me, on tape, doing magic in front of a muggle"

Mary's face scrunched in a deep frown.

"How? Weren't they allergic to technology or something like that?"

"The how it's not important. The 'what do we want in exchange?' is, however."

"Well?"

"They are forcing me to go to the annual 2nd of May celebration ball."

The blonde shrugged, all while started walking down the corridor towards the exit. "Could be worse, I guess. Can't Mycroft bail you out?"

"Not this time, apparently. I made a mistake, and this is my penance"

"Don't beat yourself up. I don't know what happened, but I know you. You made a mistake, everyone does eventually. They are bound to happen in this line of work"

"You know, as well as I do, how little tolerance Mycroft has for mistakes."

"True, control freak he is" They continued their path along the barely illuminated hallway, hearing how the heels of their shoes resounded through the halls. "So they are forcing you to go and do what exactly?"

"Put a good face, probably talk about the good and great Harry Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt and how they are fighting for a better future, and then leave me alone for drinking away my pride. It is not that weird, to be honest. Governments do it all the time, surrounding themselves with celebrities and UN talks and galas."

"Should I ask for your autograph then?"

"Only if you want me to punch you in the face"

"Charming as always. What are you going to do, then? I am fairly surprised you are not kicking and screaming through all of this"

"The only thing I can do." She took Mary by the arm, encircling it, and pushed the main door of the security facility. A few steps farther was a black car, waiting for them. "You and I are going to go to Harvey Nicks, because even if they practically put gun to my head to go, there is no way in hell I am wearing dress robes but a Chanel"

* * *

Six shops and 3 hours later, Hermione opened the door of 221 Baker Street, and was welcomed by the feeling that something was amiss. The house, normally quiet except for Mrs Hudson's radio or her own if she was at home, was filled with dull chatter coming from the upper floors. She debated a couple of seconds about if she should go for the gun that she masterfully had hidden under the seat by the stairs when she heard laughs. She let go a sigh and started her way upstairs, listening intently to distinguish who was in the living room. She let herself in through the door to the kitchen only to find a slightly overweight man, of her same height, with a good-natured expression and glasses a size too small for his face, smiling. Hermione couldn't help but smile in return, with a hand full of bags and the other still on the door handle.

"Oh hi, Hermione." John appeared at the back of the man, with a bottle of what Hermione thought was champagne.

"Hi, John." She looked at John first, then the man, that still beaming at her, and then John again, doubtful.

"Oh yes. Sorry, this is Mike. Mike, this is Hermione"

She gave a small nod and extended her hand, that was promptly shaken.

"Pleasure"

"Pleasure is mine! John hasn't stopped talking about you"

"Good things I hope. Are we celebrating something?"

"Yes, I got the place at the practice."

Hermione left her bags on the floor and gave John a single arm hug, which he returned. "That's brilliant John! Where is it?"

"Near Paddington Station, is a small place, just a couple of doctors and nurses. Apparently, I was the only one that applied. Got lucky I guess"

Hermione smiled while thinking about how straightforward had Mycroft been. He practically forced them to choose John.

"Well, then we do need to celebrate. That way Mike can tell me how did you two meet"

* * *

That same afternoon found Hermione and John sharing a comfortable silence. Gone was the lightheaded feeling from the alcohol, and they were now immersed in the drowsy aftermath, each one sprawled in an armchair. As per usual, at five sharp, Mrs Hudson made herself noticeable at the door, carrying a tray with tea, and homemade cake and gingernuts. Hermione, that had not realized how hungry she was, went straight to the latter, earning a melancholic smile from John.

"Sherlock used to love them. He could eat a whole basket if you let him, he would go downstairs to my flat and stole them every time I made them"

John let a small laugh, watching intently to the cup in his hands, already empty. "It makes you wonder where he stored it"

Mrs Hudson stopped with her cup halfway to her lips and exchanged a look with Hermione, that had choked on her tea and was coughing a bit. She excused herself and went to the kitchen, looking for a glass of water. Normally, he would stay quiet when someone mentioned his late friend, so neither of them knew how to react to him participating in the conversation. The silence was starting to weight on them, and Hermione wished she knew what to say if only for John's sake. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson recovered quickly from the shock.

"Always so skinny, that boy. Unlike his brother." She let the cup in the saucer. "Have you heard anything from Mycroft, John?"

Hermione turned her head from her spot near the sink and fixed her eyes on John. For the untrained eye, such as Mrs Hudson, he appeared to be unfazed by the question. For her, though, she could see the rigidness in his upper body, and his hands had a faint tremor that was not there before. She sat down again, facing John this time, and the look of pure hatred that had taken root in his eyes was unsettling.

"No, I haven't. And I prefer it to continue that way"

"That poor thing, without his brother"

"He didn't seem to care that much about him to begin with, did he?"

Hermione was there, silent, feeling like an outsider more than ever. She looked down and gulped the now cold tea. The atmosphere was heavy, and Mrs Hudson stood up to gathered the tea set before wishing them good night and making her way downstairs. No one talked, and when John, visibly shaken up, stood up and went to his room without uttering a word, Hermione couldn't help but let her thoughts drift to the estranged brothers. In the safety of her room, she took some of the photos she had hidden when she moved in, and her fingers travelled on their own accord to the oldest one. A small Sherlock, probably two at the time, was brightly beaming sitting on his older brother's lap, who was smiling, being both the spitting image of innocence. She could not help but think, how the unmerciful world had unleashed its power on the two siblings, both too prideful and too intelligent for the rest. She knew her opinion was skewed, as she had never met Sherlock, but in her mind, he had always been a complete ungrateful bastard towards Mycroft. Obviously, he was no angel and not at all perfect, but he cared. And after talking with people like John, she wished they knew to what extent did Mycroft care.

* * *

The next few days were strenuous. John would be gone, Merlin knows where, before she woke up, and would typically come home after she went to sleep. She left him messages, as well as Mrs Hudson because they were worried about what the implications of the situation. Hermione's fears stemmed from John's history with alcohol. She knew about Harry, and she knew about a couple of transitory drinking problems John had after the first deployment in Afghanistan. She had methodically scavenged the flat and his room searching for bottles and had gone to near all the pubs close to the flat without luck. On top of that, she had to deal with a worried and guilty Mrs Hudson, and a completely disobliging Anthea, that refused to use the CCTV cameras to look for John. Hermione tried to contact Mycroft, but being on a diplomatic mission his incoming calls where being forwarded to a voicemail.

On Saturday evening, Hermione was dozing off on the couch with a book on her lap. After almost a week, she was determined to wait for John and face him, but it was almost eleven and the constant worry was exhausting. She was almost falling asleep when a loud noise from the kitchen awoke her. Her hand went instinctively to where her holster should be only to find the wool texture or her jumper. She got up and looked through the door to see John, that had started the kettle and apparently throw several stacked plates in the process, which now laid broken on the countertop. He was with his hands on the table in front of him, with his head down and taking deep breathes.

"John?"

If he had heard her he did not show it. She got closer, letting her eyes adjust from the dim light of the kitchen lamp when she saw the drops that were staining the polished surface. She came to stand beside him, not sure if he would reject her if she tried to touch him.

"John"

"Don't. Just don't" His voice was hoarse, lazed with hurt and anger and with unshed tears. His breath was now coming out in small puffs as if he had been running. She kept silence but put a hand on his left shoulder, gripping tightly. He did not try to shake it. The kettle going off took him off that catatonic state and he turned to prepare a cup, away from her.

"Tea?"

"John–"

"No, not tea. We need something stronger"

He got to the right cabinet and took two mismatched glasses and a bottle of bourbon, unopened, to Hermione's relieve. He poured them both the amber liquid and drowned his own without even looking at her. The scene was almost laughable, her in her yoga pants with an oversized hideous Christmas-like jumper and fuzzy socks, while he was still with his scarf and coat. He was about to repeat the action when Hermione took his wrist stopping him.

"John, you need to talk about this"

He snorted a laugh.

"Is that so? You know what everyone says? Go to a therapist, they make things better, you just need to talk over this. "He tore his hand from her grip and poured another shot "I am grieving I am not bloody insane. I've been going to her, every day this week. Trying to sort myself out, because I cannot keep unleashing on everybody that so much mentions _him_. "He looked at Hermione and finished his drink, wincing at the strength "You know what she does? She stays there, and she looks at me with those eyes full of pity, as if I wasn't telling her how the bravest, most human man I've ever met is dead and I cannot do a single damn thing to fix it. She just doesn't get it. I am not missing just someone, and I am missing the person that gave my life purpose again. I've lost my saviour, and all she says is 'It will get better'"

Hermione had a déjà vu at this words, and sat down in one of the chairs, suddenly feeling ill. She felt her own hurt rising from the depths where she had to hide it. The hopeless feeling of being alone in the world overtook her again, and she drank, welcoming the bitter taste trying to push down the bile that was making its way up. She pushed the tumbler toward John, silently asking for another, which he abode.

"They do not know what they are talking about, don't they?" She watched how John sat down, cradling his own glass between his hands. "Everyone says 'People die all the time, it's how life is'. And I get it, but you are the one that is left to pick up the pieces. The problem is that those pieces don't fit anymore, and what can you do?" She lifted her head and looked at John. He reached and brushed his thumb across her cheeks, and that's when she realized that she had been crying. She let go a bitter laugh "I was so mad at the world. And there is always this voice in your head, that keeps asking 'Why them? Did they deserve this life less than someone else? Did I deserve this pain that doesn't go away?'" The spiced flavour of the whiskey soothed her throat and warmed her, making her feel numb. "If someone would have had the magic recipe for erasing it, I would have gladly taken it. But it doesn't. And then I understood, that we have different timing and different ways of grieving, but the pain never goes away."

"What was yours?"

This is it. She could tell him, everything. That she was a witch, that if Sherlock was his saviour, Mycroft was hers. That being recruited for the secret service was what saved her. That a war broke her, unfaithfulness destroyed her and she had never been able to heal. That she was tired of lying and hiding and that he was the first normal person that could possibly understand what she had been through. But looking at him, so vulnerable, but more on the path of recovery that she had ever been, she understood it was not fair to put that knowledge, that burden, on his shoulders. So, she decided, a half-truth was better than no truth at all.

"I buried myself in books. I studied, I created my own painless, sterile environment and wouldn't let anyone come into it. It took a while until I could function like a human being, and there are still times that I question myself if the person that came out of that is in any way, the person that I was before."

"Are you?"

"No." Hermione had reflected thousands of times on her post-war self. On the tortured girl that had clung to Ronald Weasley as if he was a buoy in the middle of the sea, with her heart full of vengeance, and that had sold all her believes in exchange of a normal life. The person that stood impassible to other people's suffering, because she had already _fought,_ it was time for others to save themselves. It took her years and distance to acknowledge that that awful person had been her, and despite all she had hated herself, she had accepted it and moved on, like her mother would have done. "But I am starting to think, that is not a bad thing. I am stronger now. And if you survive this, you might survive almost everything. My mom used to say, that we should be like the reeds by the rivers. You might bend, the wind might shake you up, you might have water up to your neck, but you never break."

"That's a good advice to live by." He poured both another glass "Were you talking about them?"

She looked at him and nodded.

"I thought you met your dad some days ago."

"Sirius...He is not my dad... It's complicated. He was a father figure, for a time. Then he had to leave and he came back when I lost my parents. We became a makeshift family. He has never tried to replace my parents, though."

"It feels nice to have someone."

He raised his glass.

"To our dead. May we always remember those who shaped us"

She clinked her glass with his and gulped it down. She took John's hand in her across the table, thanking him quietly. He squeezed back, and they sat there, in silence, each of them doing just that. Remembering.

* * *

 **Notes** :

First, thanks to all of you that are still reading this. I know it has been months since the last update. But I had to make the choice of whether I was going to go with my initial story or if I was going to include some elements of S4. I've been writing several possible chapters depending on the amount of S4 that I wanted to acknowledge, and I am still deciding. Especially because of all the Molly and Mary, because I wasn't expecting any of them. Funny thing is, my whole idea for this story did include a third Holmes sibling, so the Eurus plot spoke to me. So, I am still not sure about how this is going to work out in the end. I hope the final product is worth your time.

Second, I've been checking online about the timeline for John. In his blog, there are some entries before the empty hearse, without a year. According to several websites, from the one titled "A new begging" to the empty hearse, they are probably from 2013, just before he proposed to Mary and Sherlock appeared. As long they do not have a year, and for plot sake, I am going to make them be in 2012. I hope you forgive this little license.

There is a reason why Hermione parents do not have their memories back. First, because we know it is possible for someone to erase memories and do not get them back (As Lockhart), and as intelligent and skilful she is, there is a reason why the process is usually done by ministry professional. I think so many things can go wrong, and especially if you erase someone completely from someone's mind. Second, because I always thought how unfair it was from the Order to leave them to their own devices while Harry's relatives were guided into hiding. Third, because I think we have lost a huge part of character development after the war. Having Hermione in mind, and after seeing to what extents she was willing to go for their safety, I can only guess what she would do for their happiness (She has been sacrificing her own happiness and safety for so long, after all). Add to the mix a heavily traumatized and PTSD suffering person, going to Australia and seeing her parents happy, and you have a daughter afraid of returning her parents their memories only to have them reject her. So in this story, she either couldn't return the memories or she wouldn't. I hope this makes sense.

Lastly, I am still looking for a beta for this story. If you want to be the one to rip the chapters to pieces for me to put it together again, DM me. I prefer someone with experience in Sherlock fanfiction because John and Sherlock are the characters that I am struggling the most when writing, but any help will be valuable.

Beth

PS: Next Chapter: Mary meets John, John starts his blog, and Hermione attends the 2nd of May celebrations. That's right, we get to see our HP characters!


	4. Many Happy Returns

**Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Many Happy Returns**

Hermione could not believe she was stuck in a situation like this. She had faced Death-Eaters, mobsters, werewolves. She had deduced the nature of a millennia-old creature where others had failed. And yet, there she was, standing at the door of the tidiest room she had been in, pondering on the most difficult question she had had to answer in a very long time.

What do you buy John Watson for his birthday?

She huffed, annoyed, looking at her for the umpteenth time that afternoon. She had been living with him for months and she knew she had barely scratched the surface. Her first option, obviously, had been his laptop. One morning, when John had already left for work, she had punched in the password and scanned through his browser history. All the websites John had visited were practical: grocery shopping, newspaper, maps, health care system. There was another set of pages with very much not-suitable-for-work content, which did not give her relevant information, apart from his partiality for blondes. So she resorted, earlier that day, to observing his room. It was his only private place in the house, after all, so there must be something that John was attached to. Apparently, she had been wrong. The clothes in his wardrobe were functional, and space was devoid of any decoration, no trinkets or mementoes were on display. The only elements that could be considered non-essential, were the gun in the pants drawer, and a crutch carefully tucked away behind the bed.

She had officially run out of ideas. She was thinking about calling his friend Mike when she heard the jingling of keys and the main door opening. Leaving the room as quietly as she could, she practically jumped the steps to reach the chair in front of her laptop before John would make his way upstairs. Thank Circe he was a man of habit, and he always stood at the foyer opening whatever post he had received. She was typing aimlessly on an empty document when the man himself entered the room, bringing with him the smell of warm species and herbs.

"I hope you are hungry, there is this new Indian place near the practice and I thought it might be nice to have something not re-heated for once."

Hermione closed the screen and made her way to the kitchen table, prying open one of the food containers he was laying on the table, her stomach growling.

"You are a gem, John, I was starving."

"You have forgotten to eat, again?"

She looked at him and shrugged, dismissing his expression of incredulity while taking a bite of a crunchy samosa. "My current task is proving to be more difficult than expected."

They settled to eat, in silence, just enjoying the food and the company. Hermione, however, could practically see how the engines inside John's brain were turning. He had a very expressive face. He looked at her and smiled, only to continue eating. Half an hour later, both perched in the armchairs with a steaming cup of tea, John spoke up.

"So… Mrs Hudson told you that my birthday is this month."

'So that's it' Hermione thought. Not that she had needed reminder, Mycroft's notes on John were very thorough.

"That she did. I think because she wanted to recruit me for baking your cake until she saw how little I know about baking."

John made a snicker at that and turned his gaze to his cup.

"I've been thinking, and it's time to meet with some old friends… And maybe my birthday is as good date as any."

"That sounds like a great idea, who are these old friends you thinking of inviting?"

"Oh well…Probably Greg and Molly."

Hermione, the secret service agent, knew perfectly well who Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr Hooper were. However, Hermione, the writer, had to fake it.

"I can't say the names ring a bell"

"You might know them as Lestrade and Molly Hooper, from, you know… the blog"

She hummed on the rim of her cup. "Are you planning on doing it here?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat and patted the armchair, looking around. "It's time to make new happy memories, I reckon"

She nodded and busied herself with the newspaper, taking a mental note about writing the new developments for the report. Even behind the pages, she could feel the familiar sensation of being watched. She folded the politics section and she saw John intently watching her.

"Well?"

"Well what John?"

"You coming, yeah? I mean, I know we have been living together for a very short time, but after the other night… Jesus, that sounds completely wrong, but-

"John" She sucked in her lips, repressing a laugh when she saw his skin protruding from beneath the shirt was starting to become red. "Of course I'll be there. Just let me know what I need to do."

"Alright then. And as for doing, I'd say nothing, but you and me both know that Mrs Hudson won't have any of that. She always complained, but she loves to have people around."

* * *

After miserably failing on her own, she had agreed to meet Mary near Portobello to find a gift for John. They had made a list of several ideas, but all of them were ultimately rejected. Typical objects such as ties were out of the question: Hermione even doubted John owned any. Of course, it didn't help the fact that she had to stay in character. John was unaware of how much her Armani jeans or Chanel dresses cost, but she was sure even someone as oblivious as him would know that an aged edition of Sun Tzu "The art of war" was not within the budget of a linguistic. So, as it was, expensive gifts were out of the question. The other source of information had been the blog, that Mary has been avidly reading.

"Any clue in the blog?"

"That blog is 'Sherlock Holmes 101'. He is everything he writes about. "

Hermione came to a halt in the middle of the pavement, gaining herself a handful of colourful comments from the people that had to surround her.

"Mary, you are a genius"

"You know I love a good compliment. Care to share with the class why?"

"John absolutely loves to write. Albeit, he is not Dickens, he could easily benefit from one of my fake classes. Such a romantic." Mary rolled her eyes, with a small smirk dancing on her mouth. "But he hasn't written anything ever since. There are no pens or notebooks in his room, his laptop is empty from notes or documents."

"So?"

"So my gift is the little push he needs for writing again."

"How you is that."

"Hush. I am thinking about a vintage notebook and a fountain pen, I think there is this shop near –"

"Hey! Hermione!"

Both women turned towards the voice only to see Mike Stamford standing outside a small pub with a pint in one hand. Hermione took Mary by the arm and dived through the stream of people, coming towards him.

"Mike! Fancy meeting you here"

"Likewise." He stretched his hand to Mary, introducing himself. He took a sip from his pint before asking. "You were talking about John's gift, yeah?"

Both women looked at each other to what Mike laughed.

"Don't worry, I won't tell. But you don't want to speak about it, John is in the loo, he'll be back in a few minutes"

"Who'll be back in few minutes?" As if summoned, John appeared through the door with his own pint, staring at his phone, to then look at his companion and the two women beside him. "Hello there." He hugged Hermione and then looked towards Mary. "Sorry, I can't say we've met. John Watson"

"Yes, I have yet to be granted the honour to visit Baker street." She flashed a smile to Hermione who in turn blushed while extending her hand. "I am Mary, Mary Morstan. Pleasure to meet the famous John Watson at last"

"So you are Mary. Hermione talks loads about you." Hermione threw a glance to Mike, that seemed to be thinking the same as her. John was fixed on Mary, and it took the sound of crystal crashing with wood before he got conscious of the people surrounding them. "Why don't you have a pint with us?"

"Thank you John, but we still have some things to do around, right Mary?"

"Well, surely we can-" Mary turned to Hermione while was gently elbowed by her. "No, yes, you are right."

Hermione couldn't disguise her smile when she saw the lingering stares between Mary and John while exchanging goodbyes. During the rest of the afternoon, Mary was uncharacteristically quiet, but paying special attention while choosing John's gift. And she couldn't help but laugh internally when that night, John casually had commented that any of her friends were welcome to his birthday would they want to come. In her bed, after promising John she would let Mary know about the extended invitation, she thought about the ironies of life. Or more likely, how fate seemed to pair John with "interesting" people. Mycroft was going to have a field day when he knew that the good old Dr Watson wanted to replace a sociopath with an ex-assassin.

* * *

31st of March of that year was one of the sunniest, warmest Saturdays London had seen in the last decades. The sunlight seeped through the thin curtains, directly hitting the face of the only occupant of the bed. Hermione turned, trying to get some more sleep. Last night she had stayed up late, all because, in a very un-Mary like fashion, her best friend had modelled for her all her wardrobe. Twice. It was near two in the morning when Hermione, who was already dozing off, stopped Mary's rant about whether wear smart shoes or sneakers, telling her that John could not care less. She was about to fall asleep again when the loud noise of a hoover being turned on made her sit bolt upright on her bed. Confused for a moment, she let herself fall backwards on the bed groaning, her head pounding to the beat of "Hallowed Be Thy Name". She got up and opened the door, finding Mrs Hudson dancing in the living room.

"Good morning dear, oh, you look like awful." The infernal noise died down, and the old lady went to the kettle. "I'll fix you a cuppa."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." Hermione dropped herself on one of the chairs, cradling her head in her hands. It was way too early for being sarcastic. "How do you have so much energy at... 9 in the morning on a weekend? I am knackered."

"That's because you are not getting a comfortable sleep. I'll give you one of my herbal soothers, they will relax you."

She was about to ask what kind of herbal soothers she took when they heard John's voice coming off the stairs.

"I've got everything on the shopping list!" The wooden floors creaked under the weight of steps. Judging by the noise, Hermione calculated probably around three or four full bags, probably from the Tesco Express in Melcombe Street. John entered the room some seconds after, carrying all the groceries in four full bags, that were effectively left on the floor. "Everything but the party hats. I can't believe you thought I was going to buy them"

"But it's a birthday John!"

"I am turning 38, not 5!"

"Did you get the birthday decorations?"

John looked at Mrs Hudson, and pinched his nose, closing his eyes. "Yes"

"Wonderful. I am going downstairs to get the duster. Oh, I am so glad I can finally see all the surfaces polished. Do not forget to store the groceries."

John drawled an exasperated sigh and Hermione got up, hugging him, which he returned.

"Happy birthday John." She searched his eyes with hers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine"

Despite everything, Hermione had started to know John and his tendency to not to show any kind of weakness unless it was an outburst of anger. And if John Watson, man of few words, decided to use the word 'Fine', it probably meant the exact opposite.

"Want a bit of gin in your tea?"

"Oh God, yes."

A couple of spiked teas after, a row between John and Mrs Hudson about cleaning the railing and an almost accident hanging the 'Happy Birthday' decorations, Hermione decided that she deserved a hot shower before getting dressed. John had already emptied the bathroom and had gone to get changed, and Mrs Hudson was probably doing the same. She was finishing her makeup when a long pulse of the ring bell followed by a short one resounded around 221B. Going out of her room, she went downstairs to see Mary, dressed in her best pair of slacks and a dressing shirt with colourful butterflies, talking to Mrs Hudson. She stopped mid stairs and stared at Mary with a mocking smile.

"Oh shut up"

"I haven't said a thing, Mary. Come, John will be _delighted_ to see you"

John was already next to the kitchen, his hands behind him while gently swaying on his toes, dressed in a pair of jeans (new, as Hermione noticed) and a deep blue check shirt. He smiled politely at Mary, who handed him the exquisite bourbon she had bought for the occasion. They did some small talk, soon joined by Mrs Hudson and Mike, that had arrived a few minutes after Mary. Close to mid-afternoon, the bell rang again, and John brought the two remaining guest upstairs. Hermione, that had settled herself on the black leather armchair, examined closely the couple that had just arrived. Lestrade shifted awkwardly his gaze from the spot she was to the rest of the people, while the splash of colour that Molly Hooper was had a shy smile on her face, her hands defensively folded before her midsection. Hermione felt Mary's hand on her elbow, effectively pushing her up. She guessed, for everyone that knew Sherlock, having someone in his usual places, was still confusing. John cleared his throat and opened one of his arms signalling to Hermione.

"Greg, Molly, this is Hermione, oh and Mary, a friend." Mary got up and placed herself next to Hermione. "Mary, Hermione, Greg and Molly"

"Hi, nice to meet you, John had told me a lot about you two." Both of them, in the perfect example of British politeness, did not mention that John had not talked to them in months before the invitation.

"Well, not me, I just met John a week ago."

Greg and Molly stood there, as if not knowing what to say. But her, much in accordance with what she had read in some of Mycroft files, took up to her to break the ice.

"I think I have never seen this room this clean. I could do a post-mortem on that table"

Hermione and Mary look dumbfounded to the petit woman while the rest of the room chuckled awkwardly.

"You'll get used to Molly's sense of humour"

The rest of the party was pleasant, although with each passing hour Hermione could see how John's eyes grew darker and sadder, his alcohol driven chatter dying, gradually yielding to long silences when not actively asked. His gaze had travelled from the mantel to the yellow smirking face on the wall with no one but Hermione (and she suspected Mary) noticing. The lack of engagement from him eventually got to the rest, that one by one started to leave, wishing the last 'happy birthday'. By dawn, Hermione and John had been left alone in 221B. She had gone to her room, while he sat down on his chair, the last glass of whiskey in his grasp.

"Here"

John raised his head to watch her face, only to look at her extended hand, that was holding the carefully wrapped notebook and pen. He took it and ripped the paper. Confused, he stroked the fine engraving of the cover.

"I bet you thought I had forgotten." She sighed and kneeled next to him. "I do think your therapist has a point, about writing. But I think maybe you have to do it in your own terms, in a different format. So, I thought, maybe an old-fashioned method wouldn't bring as many memories as your blog."

He did not say anything, he just opened the notebook, looking at the pristine pages.

"And well, you know, Mary helped me choosing it. She is the one that picked the pen"

He stared at her, only to take said pen between his fingers, assessing the weight. She gave a reassuring squeeze in his upper arm, before leaving for her room.

The next morning, she saw the notebook open by the first page, with the pen in the middle partition, right on the coffee table. On top of the page, with a very distinctive doctor handwriting, it read "A new beginning".

* * *

Cafe Regents near Regents canal was a perfect hideout for the stormy afternoons of mid-April in London. It was not a surprise to see the little spot packed with people working on their laptops, writing or simply talking, sheltered from the elements. Hermione, who usually came to this place to have a nice coffee while observing the customers, was now staring blankly at the paper in front of her, a frown on her face. The much-unwanted reunion was approaching, and as requested in exchange for the full delivery of the folder with her indiscretion, she needed to give a speech that will appease the magic folk. The worst thing is that she had no idea about what to say. Well, she did know what to say, but that wouldn't buy the minister time, that would cause a riot.

She closed the notebook and threw it into her handbag. Reclining on her seat, she massaged her temples. She knew the writer's block she was having was a symptom of the real problem. Which was, fear. In less than two weeks, she was going to be forced to face a part of her life that was better left in the past. She had been so careful. Avoiding every and any news from the British magic community. Vetoing any comments from Sirius. And of course, trading favours with Mycroft: every request from the Ministry was taken by another agent, while she took the riskier tasks somewhere over the globe.

Apparently, the longer her speech became, the shorter fuse she had, as it became evident in the following days. A few days before the dreaded day, she had barked at Mrs Hudson when she reprimanded her for eating pizza for the third time that week, to which John had not commented anything. She had later apologised to her landlady and had smoothly lied about having an important meeting that was getting on her nerves. For the remaining days, both tried to be in the same room as her as little as possible. Even Mycroft, that had dealt with a drug addict, self-absorbed brother, remained on the sidelines. The day she wrote the last word of the speech, she closed her laptop, ringed Mary and drank and danced her anger away. And the next morning, when she sat back in a taxi after waking up in a random house with a random guy, she wondered why her old life still had so much impact on her present.

* * *

She looked herself in the full-length mirror, admiring the beautiful Alexander McQueen strapless dress she was wearing. It was simple floor-length, black dress, with a delicate ornament in gold around the waist. Her make-up, with smoky eyes and mate red lips, fitted perfectly with her messy up-do and her black nails. Her gaze came to her left arm, where the hideous scar was left out on full display. At the beginning, she had never covered it. But living in a muggle neighbourhood, and even among her peers, it had raised too many questions, so she had gotten used to hiding it under a glamour spell. Seeing it, it almost felt that the scar was something that belongs to another life. But today, she was not Hermione Black, but Hermione Granger. And Hemione Granger had been tortured, and that 'Mudblood' was just one of the many scars the war had left her to live with.

"Hermione, the car is already here!"

She took a last glance and picked her small handbag and her coat. Downstairs was Sirius, waiting, looking every bit the English gentleman in his full evening dress. He had decided to make a statement not wearing dress robes and go with the muggle alternative. She thought she could not love him more than now.

"You look stunning dear."

"Thanks. You look dashing. Bringing someone home tonight?"

"Merlin I hope not. If I do, get a psychiatrist, would you?"

Hermione gave him a tight smile. The jovial attitude of her companion did nothing to calm her nerves. If she were a believer, she would have prayed to any and every God for a traffic jam. But from the fancy flat in Covent Garden to Whitehall, she could only hope for fifteen minutes of commuting. Stepping out of the security of the back seat and facing the visitors' entrance of the Ministry stirred old feelings inside her, and the memories started filling her with every meter the cabin descended. By the time they arrived at the Atrium, Sirius had to wipe away a single tear that came down her cheek. Nothing had changed since her last visit to the Ministry, and her muscle memory took her to her right, where the conference room was. She could hear the voices on the other side, and the amount of magic was saturating her senses due to lack of practice. She stood there, facing the wooden surface, breathing as calmly as her body could, and took the arm that was waiting for her.

"Chin up, darling. Show must go on"

A magically heightened voice on the other side asked for attention before the doors opened, and announce them:

"Mister Sirius Orion Black and Miss Hermione Jean Granger"

She had a moment of weakness when the archway opened before her and thought about doing a runner. She knew Mycroft would hide her in Nepal or something. She could go to Hawaii, change her name to Lilo and start a new life as a scuba diving instructor. Yes. That was a good plan. But Sirius, almost reading her thoughts, took a step forward, dragging her lightly. She could feel the stares on her. This was the big moment for the Ministry, it had been announced in every paper: the return of the prodigal daughter, the third apex of the golden trio. She looked straight ahead, trusting Sirius to lead her between the rounded tables that had been placed around the room, and avoiding making eye contact with anyone. The thump of her heart against her rib cage was so loud she thought everyone within four feet could hear it, but it was drowned by the generalised whispering around her.

And then, she saw them.

She realised in that moment, how screwed up the situation was. She knew nothing of these people she once risked her life for. Ever since she left, she had prohibited herself to think about what their lives might be like. But of course, at first glance, nothing had changed. What she knew to be the place for the Minister of Magic was empty. To the left, Harry, with smart dress robes and frowning, his lips pressed into a thin line while twirling his wedding band. To his left, Ginny, beautiful in her silk green robes, the spitting image of the perfect hostess. To Kingsley's right were Ron, handsome as ever, and Lavender, who was making sure of taking his hand in hers, while displaying the ridiculously big diamond on her ring finger. The other two places were occupied by Neville and Luna, who was wearing bright pink robes and radish earrings. Sirius took her chair out for her, the one immediately next to Luna, and he sat next to Lavender, greeting a good evening to everyone. No words were exchanged, and a waiter, who looked vaguely familiar to her, poured her some wine that she took like a lifesaver. Every conversation was drowned by the strong voice of the Minister, that in a very professional manner, welcomed all to the feast. He drawled during what seemed like an eternity about unity, overcoming the adversities and forgiveness. The wine turned into bile in her mouth, the hypocrisy of it all threatening to make her sick. Clapping burst around her, and she saw Kingsley descending from the stage, stopping to talk with Draco Malfoy in another table. The sound of clattering started filling the room, and Ginny felt the impulse to add her own contribution to it.

"That is a very interesting choice of wardrobe, Sirius."

"Yes, well, I had to match up with this lovely lady." Sirius did a small frill with his hands, pointing at Hermione.

"Well, I think that dress robes are much more elegant."

"I think her dress looks nice, Lavender. It could always use some colour, but Hermione probably doesn't want any Luoping Fairies around her"

After Luna's intervention, the table fell again into a tense silence. She had not touched the food that had appeared in her place. Neither had Harry or Ron.

"So Hermione, how have you been?"

She turned to look at Ginny, confused. Sirius gave her a soft kick, and her voice came out, hoarse. "Good, yourself?"

"We have been good, really." Hermione flinched internally before such display of non-individuality. "We have already produced the new generation of troublemakers. Right, honey?"

Harry did not answer and Hermione just gave her a courteous smile. She saw that Ginny was expecting some kind of interest for her kids. Instead, she took a sip of her wine.

"What about you?"

'Not drunk enough' "Single."

Lavender gave a very unladylike snort. Fortunately, her phone vibrated inside her handbag. Taking it out, she tapped the screen to open the incoming message: 'Just a couple of hours. MH'

"I thought that muggle things did not work with magic around"

Hermione, typing an answer back, not even bothered raising her head from her phone.

"Well, this muggle thing does"

In that moment, Kingsley had arrived at the table and was taking his own chair out, facing her.

"It is an honour you accompany us tonight, Hermione"

She knew she should not retaliate. That there was way too much at stake as to lose her temper. But although she felt Sirius pinching her side, the words were already tumbling out of her mouth.

"I wish I could say the same, Minister."

"It wasn't an attack, Hermione," interjected Neville.

"Well, neither was mine."

"Please." Sirius covered her hand with his. "Let's try to be adults for a couple of hours."

"We are not the ones that came with snarky remarks on the tip of our tongues, Padfoot."

"That's funny because I think that in all this table…" She turned to her former best friend, brown clashing with green for the first time in years. "… I am the only one that had to be coerced to come. I'd say that's a pretty abhorrent thing to do."

Harry tensed after this, inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring. She pried her hand away from Sirius' grasp and took her glass of wine. She saw the waiter again, and it hit her: it was Theodore Nott, serving the table next to her. She turned to Kingsley, that was distractingly cutting his steak.

"What is Theo Nott doing as a waiter?"

"Well, it's his job"

She looked at Sirius "I remember him, he had almost perfect grades. And money. When I left, he had donated half of his fortune and was supposed to start as an intern for the international cooperation department. What happened?"

"He fell under the umbrella of the 'Equity Law'"

"And what is that?"

"Anyone with ties of first degree to a death eater would be forbidden to access public positions to avoid previous political movements," Harry spoke solemnly, reciting the law. "As well as being rid of all their money because we cannot know its origin."

"That's awfully unfair."

"We did what it was necessary to clean the Ministry."

"And how come Malfoy is not? Because he was valuable for you?"

"Well, if you had so many objections, why didn't you say something? Oh, that's right." Harry gave her a smile full of disdain. "Because you left."

"Yes Harry, because it worked so well for me when I tried to antagonise to you the first time."

"Please, a moment of attention." The usher, standing and clinking a glass of wine, waited for silence "Now, war heroine Hermione Granger, has kindly agreed to delight us with a few of her inspirational words. Please, give her a warm welcome."

"Off you go, _heroine_." Harry's voice was sombre over the clapping sound. "Time to face the music."

The anger she felt, swirling inside her veins, tangling with the magic that pricked at her fingertips, was everything she needed to stand up and make her way to the stage. Although her knees wobbled while she climbed the stairs, she was determined to show the rest of the world why she had almost sole-handedly steered the outcome of the war. She approached the stand, momentarily blinded by the white lights and deaf from the shutter noise of the cameras. Taking a deep breath, she started.

* * *

 **Notes:**

First, thanks to all of you that had left reviews, or had marked/followed this story. I think that watching the number of people reading it is what awoke my muse!.

About the chapter: Yes, I love Hermione. I adore her character and I am loving every second of delving into such a delightful personality. I think she had one of the most complex backgrounds and I hope to make her justice. I am trying to depict her as the flawed person I imagine her to be, so I am trying extra hard to not make a Mary Sue out of her (any comments on this, is there is a point where I am making her too perfect will be welcome). Furthermore, we get to see our HP characters. Some of you might not agree with me with how I have portrayed them. In the next chapters, I'll explain why Hermione left, and I hope that retrospectively it'll make sense. As a warning, probably Harry will be the one that might seem a bit OoC in comparison to canon. Honestly, I think that Harry has a vengeful streak, and lets his anger take control sometimes. You might argue it was the piece of Voldemort inside him, but I think some of it was his.

About the dates. According to Sherlock's timeline, I found in Sherlock's wiki, the blog post "A new beginning is from the 20th April 2013, the year Sherlock comes back. Because it makes more sense with my story, I've changed the date to the 20th April 2012, the year that Hermione moves in, almost a year after Sherlock dies. Therefore, the events of this chapter take place between April and May 2012. I've also tried to document myself about the possible ages of the characters. I found online that John had 36 years in ASiP (2010), while Sherlock was 33, Hermione 31 and Mycroft 40 by that time.

The reason for the title: Many happy returns, as you probably already know, is a common greeting in someone's birthday. Also, Hermione returns to the magic community, although she won't say that it is a happy occasion.

Luoping Fairies: I made this up. I wanted a magical creature that was attracted to bright colours. Luoping is a colourful region of China. That's it. I think the name sounds magical enough.

Next chapter: Hermione delivers her speech, John and Hermione have a much overdue conversation, and she lets go of her past. Heavy emotions ahead!

I hope you've liked this,

Beth


	5. Her Last Bow

**Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Her last bow**

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is a privilege for me to stand before you today, commemorating all those who died for our freedom. I would like to thank Minister Shacklebolt and Auror Potter for inviting me tonight. I wouldn't be here if not for them."

"When I was asked to come tonight, I wasn't sure about how to face you. How someone that decided to leave, was in any way, the correct person to deliver these words. So, I realised that first I needed to apologise to you. There are some things I did that I am not proud of, and I think we can all agree, that's a common feeling. When I left, it was out of impatience. For me, things weren't moving fast enough. I wanted everything done there and then. The difficulties were an excuse for inaction, the caution was cowardice under disguise, and justice was still to come. Leaving was a balsam for my battered spirit. But the truth is, I was too young to see the bigger picture. "

"Future has been unkind. We foolishly thought that war ended the moment that Lord Voldemort touched the ground. Finally, the sun was rising, the dark times were already behind us. But just like the change from night to dawn, it doesn't happen in an instant, but gradually. And that's what we did not understand, that's what I did not understand. Our greed for a better, fairer world burnt us. We all had different priorities, we wanted to do too much too soon."

"I cannot pretend I know a thing about politics, and I knew even less back then. But it is now obvious that changing years of immovable politics and how society works is harder than we thought. Such complete restructuration doesn't come for free, and decisions had to be made. For better or for worse, independently of which decisions were, what we can say today is that we are not being prosecuted by things we cannot change, everyone is equal to their neighbour, and choice is now a reality."

"We survived a war, some us survived two. Some us fought, some of us didn't. We all made mistakes. But what we were and what we did, it doesn't matter. What matters now is what are willing to do for achieving the kind of world we want to live in. There is a quote that says 'I was very lucky; I was part of the post-war period when everything had to be redone.' I am sure that thought is what drove those who stayed. Those who gave their best for rebuilding the Wizarding Britain. Those people, then soldiers now politicians, are still here, ready to do whatever it takes to continue their legacy, leading you to the future you deserve."

"All I ask from you is to have faith in us. We as a community have endured the worst pains and humiliations. We were slaves, but we managed to break the chains. For that, I can say: I am proud of you. I am proud of have fought for you. And I am proud of have risked my life for those who are not here with us."

"Now I want to propose a toast our brothers and sisters, who fell in battle. May our actions always honour them."

A resounding applause erupted and bombarded her ears like a thunderstorm. The blood was pumping through her veins, pulsing in her temples with such a force that she had to close her eyes for a second. She felt dirty. Minute by minute, the audience became more and more enraptured, spilling tears and muttering praises that she knew she did not deserve. Every word she spoke turning into dust in her mouth. A wave of nausea made her clench her stomach, and she opened her eyes, frantically searching for Sirius. He offered her a hand that she promptly took, walking down the small three steps until being securely tucked under his arm. She heard someone that sounded like her throwing words of gratitude to those who came her way in the short path to the table. The noise had calmed by the time she sat down, the next speaker about to start.

"You know" Sirius had come closer, whispering next to her. He had put a glass in her grasp, probably the same Ogden whiskey she smelled in his breath. "If Mycroft ever fires you, you'd make a hell of an actress"

She did not turn, and gulped the drink, welcoming the burning sensation as a punishment. A familiar hand came to her right shoulder, gently massaging the tension while the Head of Magical Cooperation talked. The next applause was less hearty. Apparently, no one was interested in the proposal for centaur recruitment for the Department of Mysteries.

"Hermione"

She looked opposite to her over the centrepiece and arched her eyebrows to express her attention. Kingsley shifted on his chair, a faint smile on his face.

"I just wanted to thank you—"

"Don't" She left the glass more forcefully that she should, the people from the nearest table discretely looking their way. The next words were barely audible, a mere angry whisper. "I did what you asked me. I've traded my integrity for my freedom. I bought you time." She felt the tears of rage starting to prick on the corner of her eyes. "I don't want your thanks. The only thing I want from you are the documents you have on me. And I expect Mycroft to have them by morning."

"He will, I give you my word"

"It's a shame that hasn't any value for me" Holding her clutch, Hermione got up while picking her coat. "Now if you excuse me."

"Hermione you don't have to go"

"The hell I don't, Ronald. Make no mistake. Whatever happened here does not change anything. I will never forget that you blackmailed me. You forced me. Well, there you go. You got what you wanted, now leave me alone"

Hermione gave a quick kiss to Sirius that was standing up, and made her way to the door, trying as hard as she could to not run. She went out of the room and started wandering the empty hallways, coming to a halt in front of the fountain that replaced the hideous Magic is Might that Voldemort had built. The new version, a witch and a wizard protecting other magical beings, with the word "Unity" scrapped at the bottom. She thought of the lies within the walls of the Ministry, of the barbarities that had been done in the name of unity. Her steps carried her to the exit, her memories a blur. Everything she sacrificed, everything she did, all for being used as a political tool, the exact thing she had never wanted to become.

Only when the air outside touched her cheeks, she realised she had been crying.

* * *

She stepped out of the taxi in front of 221B Baker Street. The lights of the living room were on, meaning that a conversation with John was inescapable. She opened the door and shrugged out of her coat, dragging herself up the stairs. As suspected, John was comfortably reading on his armchair, a steaming coffee on the armrest. She threw her coat on the couch with his purse and went to the leather chair, taking off her heels, exhausted. She hated the aftermath of an adrenaline rush, she thought, while resting her head in her hands. She barely heard the noise of John's footsteps entering the kitchen.

"So, how was it?"

Hermione looked up, opening her eyes, a tired smile on her face. "Not good"

"Wishing you had stayed at home then?"

"Oh yes. Thank you." She took the cup that John was offering. "I hate all the nonsense chatter, the fake interest." She took a sip, the familiar scent of black tea relaxing her. "It makes you hate people. They are so ordinary, in the end." She perked her head up to John's chuckle, and saw his fond expression.

"You remind me of him, sometimes. Sherlock. Without the sociopathic tendencies, of course. But annoyingly clever and direct."

"I'll take that as a compliment"

A chirping sound broke the silence.

"You are not going to take that?"

Hermione let out a sigh and went to retrieve her phone from her purse. "It's Mary." She tapped a short answer and turned off her phone. "I have no energy to talk to her today. She takes up to her to solve all my problems and her pragmatism is always obnoxiously accurate." She felt John's gaze on her. "What?"

"Nothing, I was just… Thinking."

"John, I know when you are fibbing. What?

"It's just… I have this question in my head. I've had it for a while, and maybe it is not the best moment, but I just remembered… And I never dared to ask you."

"Ask me about what?

He took a deep breath, looking everywhere but her.

"Did you believe in him?"

Hermione was surprised this question had not come sooner. The reasons why John had chosen this exact day when she was tired and angry and upset, were not obscure to her. Him, being the selfless man he was, had decided to give her something to think about even if her answer might hurt him. She sat down in front of him, a warm feeling spreading through her.

"So you know what the Occam's razor is"

"Yes, of course"

"My mind tends to think that way. And back then, everything seemed so…" She moved her arms around her, trying to express the right word. "...convoluted. All the hiring actors and faking cases. The simplest explanation was that it was all a ruse."

"Everyone thought that the easiest was that he was lying."

"For some people is easier to think that genius lie about being so, instead of facing their own ordinariness. We fear what we don't understand and we try to take it down. Rally against it. People did not understand how he could reach the solutions he did when the police couldn't do so. So, you turn said man into a lie for covering your own failings." Hermione smiled at him. She sat down on the floor in front of him, her hand on his knee. "Anyway, if I had any doubt before meeting you, I have none now. I think you are a very good judge of character, John. You can't be wrong about him"

"He was harsh. He was abrasive, he had zero regards for people's feelings. But he was a good man. And I am so happy, you know it too." He was now who took both her hands. Writing has helped. Therapy, even if I rebuffed it, helped. Sometimes we just need to let go of the past."

* * *

Well, Hermione, why now?" Ella's question received no answer, not even a gesture of acknowledgement. "Hermione, you need to work with me. I cannot help you if you don't talk"

"Fine" She sat upright on the white chair. She hated feeling scrutinised as if she was a criminal and her interlocutor was the one in control. Her rational mind told her that she had chosen to come and start solving the ties that wouldn't let her move on. Her Sympathetic nervous system, on the other hand, has transformed her into the human version of a cornered lion.

" I am not your enemy, Hermione."

"I know that I am not daft." She gulped and exhaled, visibly regretting the words when she saw Ella's expression. "Sorry. That was out of line."

"You are not the first nor the last that gets defensive in this room." Ella handed her a glass of water and returned to her notes. "Now, what brought you here? Do you want to start from the beginning?"

"There is no time for that, believe me"

"We have time, Hermione. I am doing this as a favour to John, but that doesn't mean we cannot do this on a regular basis"

"I've been to therapy before. This is just… A top up."

"Something triggered you, then." Hermione nodded. "Well?"

"Last week, I saw some… old acquaintances."

"Friend, you mean?"

"Yes"

"Good friends? More than friends?"

"There was a point in my life that we were thick as thieves, life family. We could have easily given our lives for each other."

"That's a very deep bond. What happened?"

"Adulthood. Our priorities changed, I guess. We haven't talked since we were eighteen."

Ella made some notes, and Hermione tried to read them, but the light was too dim to discern the movements of the pen. Anyhow, she could almost deduce what she was writing. Trust issues, abandonment issues, possible toxic romantic relationship. Nothing she had not heard before.

"What exactly prompted your visit?"

" I…" She got up, and started pacing around the room. She thought better when walking. "I thought I felt nothing anymore. I do not think about them." The street behind the window was quiet, fat drops of the previous rain still trailing down the glass. "They are distant ideas, I made sure to hide them away in the deepest corners of my mind. They got on with their lives, so did I. But when I saw them… All they angriness and disappointment came back, but also the love and the friendship and I miss them and hate them so much at the same time that I just don't know what to do with what I am feeling."

"You made a beginner's mistake."

Hermione sat on the window sill, crossing her arms over her chest. "What?"

"Yes. You don't overcome your problems by hiding them away. That's the easy way out. It takes courage to move on by facing the mistakes and the losses we collect with the decisions we make. Your feelings are the proof that your technique does not work. If you really want to begin a new chapter, you don't take a new notebook, you don't erase what you have written. You turn the page and start making sense of everything up to that point." Ella left her notes on the small table and came to her, her hands taking Hermione's elbows and looking directly at her. "You accept your past, so you can build your future."

* * *

Her fingers grazed the kitchen door frame, where tiny lines were painted in different colours, with dates starting from 1980. Initially, the house had been painted over, but she scratched clean all the places she knew she might find memories. She remembered the doodle of a five-year old girl, obsessed with dragons, in the small spot of the wall beside the stairs. Or the three purple handprints in the dusty pink room upstairs. She caressed the wooden countertop, her usual spot on Sunday mornings when her father was cooking breakfast. Right in her line of sight, outside in the well-kept garden, was the swing her parents decided to build. The big plush sofa by the window where her mother used to read. Few were the furniture items the previous owners had decided to keep, but luckily were the ones that Hermione was fond of.

The doorbell startled her. On the other side, there was a smartly dressed woman, papers peeking out of her designer bag. She sat in the dining room across Hermione and handed her the documentation.

"Well, Miss Black, as you know, the house is selling lower than when you bought it. Are you sure?"

She stared blankly at the empty space presiding the room, where an ancient family portrait used to hang. The first Mr and Mrs Granger, French immigrants in the business of wool. Her father always told her the story, because they had come from poor families and had made a name of themselves through hard work and integrity. But that was another life, another Hermione. She had to accept they were not coming back. There will be no grandfather telling his grandchildren this story, or any other.

"Yes. I have no use for it anymore. Never did."

* * *

 **Notes**

Here it is. This is a very personal chapter, as I have been going through a very dark part of my life where writing has helped me overcoming my anxiety. I tried to put my own experiences in therapy here, but our problems were slightly different, so I might not have gotten my point across. There might be some redone involved during the next week.

Again, I am sorry for any grammatical mistakes. I wanted to give you this as soon as I could, so I revised less than normal. Word says it is fine, but I do not believe it.

I present you my idea of how Hermione was after the war. A broken girl, deciding if she should follow her friends sacrificing her ideas, or if her integrity is worthier than them. Knowing Hermione, I think she would have had a hard time choosing. She tried to keep her parents present by buying their house again, but all that baggage was drowning her. She is in a healing path now, together with John, and they will both help each other to overcome their losses.

Next chapter: John has a rough time around Sherlock's death. Hermione decides to spend Mycroft's birthday with him. Some secrets come out.

I hope you've liked this,

Beth


	6. An Eventful Anniversary

**Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: An eventful anniversary**

The heat was excruciating. She could feel the drops of sweat trickling over her skin underneath her black T-shirt, covered with the bulletproof vest. Her hair was sticking to her forehead and scalp. Her legs hurt for having been in the same squatting position for past hour, and her arms were heavy of holding the gun against her chest. Hermione looked over the metal column, seeing the hallway empty, quiet. Her voice, low and steady, was the only faint echo around her.

"Silver, this is Salem. Position. Over"

The white noise coming from the other side of the communication kept still. She had lost sight of her partner a couple of hours ago when they had taken different paths in the maze that was the warehouse. She repeated the order. This time, a nonsense gibberish crept into her hear, followed by a loud beep.

"Bugger."

She reached into her breast pocket, noticing a couple of recharges for her weapon. In her head, she was reciting the whole speech she was going to give to Mycroft for underestimating a weapon exchange between the Yakuza and a mysterious English provider. For Mycroft, it had been an easy outlet for her "domestic bliss" pent-up frustration. In fact, it had been considered so ordinary that the secret service had not sent any support group nor had they given magic clearance. That had left her, Salem, and Silver, alone within a mousetrap of zooming bullets, stuck in the crossfire while their target, the Englishman, flew from the scene. Hermione knew the blueprint of the building as she knew the Hogwarts's library, so she had been trying for the past two hours to reach the back door and make a safe escape.

Noises of trainers tapping against metal stopped her train of thoughts while her grip on her gun tightened. A white-haired head appeared around the corner, the communication device hanging loosely over his shoulder, and sporting a bloodied wound on the left cheek. Hermione made the agreed 3-sound signal and Silver came towards her, pointing to the way he came and then giving her a thumbs-up signal. She took the vanguard and moved her left hand in a forward motion, starting to creep along the wall, undoing her partner steps. As if it was the Marauders' Map, she had the blueprints on the back of her mind, two tiny red dots standing were they stood, mimicking their actions, moving towards the exit. Right, then the second to the left, and then straight forward until reaching the door to the power room. From there right to the narrow alley and out.

They had barely seen the sunlight when they heard angry voices screaming in Japanese, coming from somewhere behind them, nor far away from their position. Then, everything happened in seconds. They looked at each other and barely made it run after hearing gunshots over their heads. Hermione ran, keeping an eye on Silver slightly ahead of her when she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. The impact made her lose her balance everything went black.

* * *

"Dr Watson, please, she needs rest"

"Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?"

"This is hardly the time for criticism."

"I don't care who are you or who you talked to, if you both don't stop fighting I'll kick you out. Understood?" An authoritarian voice was heard over the rest, a voice she did not recognise. The other two, the posh and the angry, she definitely knew. Her head blank and empty, was making difficult for her to form coherent thoughts. Maybe that's why her drug immersed brain did not think about the implications of Mycroft Holmes and John Watson in the same room. She finally made it to open her eyes, the light over the bed hurting her corneas and making her head spin. Instinctively, her right hand came to her forehead trying to protect her from the blinding whiteness, feeling the strain of freshly sewed stitches near her scapula and the tug of the venous catheterization attached to an intravenous bag. She let her head fall, turning it towards the nurse that was fiddling with the buttons on the monitor, and then gazing to the men. John was grasping the bed rail, his knuckles white, watching the nurse finishing her work. Mycroft, further away at the foot of the bed, was holding his typical stance: umbrella in front of him, both hands on the handle, eyes boring on her. The only give away of his state was the light pressure on his lips. Only after the nurse had left, reminding them that they had 10 minutes maximum, did Hermione open her mouth, her voice rough.

"Mike, may I have some water?"

To John's surprise, Mycroft went to the table behind him and served a glass with a straw. "You know I abhor that moniker"

"I am wounded and probably high because I swear, your head looks gigantic. I am entitled." She drank a bit, the water calming the sandy feeling in her mouth. Her left hand rested on John's, that relaxed his fist and looked down at her. "John, how have you known where I was?"

"Molly overheard your name in the A&E. She called me and I found him" He said titling his head to Mycroft "speaking to the director of the hospital"

He extricated his hand and stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest. 'Well, defensive position.' Thought Hermione 'We are in for a rough recovery.' She sighed.

"I presume I am in a very private place of the building, then."

"Absolutely. You'll be here for at least a week. It could have been worse. No a collapsed lung, at least."

"I got shot. Not my first rodeo. How's Silver?"

"He brought you. He is fine. He had already been patched up."

"Mmm…" The black space was taking over her mind again. It felt nice, having the head devoid of everything, random ideas going on and about. She started feeling numb, a fog starting the fill-up space. She barely registered the noise of the door, revealing Molly.

"Hello. I thought that I could check on you before leaving, and maybe stop the third world war. Rebecca told me you were probably asleep. How do you feel?"

Molly's nervous chatter made Hermione dizzy. The speed of her words made no sense. What war was she talking about? Was it one of the goblins and the centaurs? Well, Mycroft had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, he probably was conspiring with the goblins. It looked like his kind of thing. She felt her eyes growing heavy, and she had to blink hard to refocus herself.

"Sleepy." Hermione gulped, eyelids fluttering. "My Barbie had a scarf like that. Did you steal it from her?"

"She is under morphine, she'll be asleep in a couple of minutes."

"I know John, I am also a doctor."

"You work with dead people, Molly."

"She dealt with Sherlock just fine."

"Do not speak of him"

"Sherlock this, Sherlock that…" Hermione did a mocking sound and moved her hand like a puppet, while her eyes closed, sinking into the pillows. "Everyone is in love with Sherlock. You all should marry Sherlock. Do a big wedding, with… things...and… things."

* * *

It was late at night when she woke up, disoriented. Her temples pounded, her cranium felt like a ball full of concrete. It was hard to think, like if the ideas were rusty and did not fit between them. The room was under a dim glow coming from a small floor lamp next to the armchair, where John was reading a book.

"John?" She pushed herself up, groaning. Her shoulder felt tender and her right arm had no strength. She will probably need rehab. "What are you doing here? What time is it?"

John closed his book and stood up, stretching, and came to help her, resting her back against the padded headboard.

"You've been asleep for a whole day. You woke up every now and then, but not more than a couple of minutes. You father and Mary had been here, now it's my turn. Molly will come by now a couple of hours before Mycroft's designated stand-in comes"

"Thank you" She smiled shyly at him, smiled that was not returned. She sighed and scratched the skin next to the plaster on her hand, that was itchy and raw. "Would you sit? We have to talk."

"We can talk when you are better."

"John, sit. I need to talk."

"I don't do whatever Mycroft or you order me. You are not Sherlock"

"I know I'm not-"

"Well, it bloody feels like it!" John exclaimed. He took a couple of steps backs, his hand combing his hair as if trying to put his thoughts in place. He looked at her again, and, coming closer, he talked, punctuating every word with his index. "I thought that I was going to get back a bit or normality and to my surprise, I come to find Mycroft-fucking-Holmes waiting on the other side of the door. I want to know why!"

"You deserve to know why!" Hermione blinked, the headache coming back. "I am going to tell you, now. Please, sit"

John's nostrils flared, but he took the chair being him. Hermione tried to get herself comfortable, a sharp pain crossing her back.

"I've got secrets, John. This is just one of them. But it did concern you, and I'm sorry for not having told you before. I am part of the secret service. I work for Mycroft, and I was given the task to monitor you. Was that the answer you were looking for?"

"It was the one I expected"

"I appreciate you, John. I think you are probably the best person I've met and if I decided to continue in Baker Street was not out of duty but because I was myself concerned. You might not believe me, but that is the truth."

"It is hard to believe you now, you are aware of that."

"I am John, I am."

"Is there something else you've hidden from me?"

"Yes, but those are my business. But you now know everything that concerns you or Sherlock. What I've told you is everything there is to know about it."

John looked at her for sometime before getting up, grabbing his coat. "Molly will be here in 10 minutes. I should get going."

"John" The man stopped and looked at her, his hand on the door handle. "I know what you think about Mycroft. I know you think he is a heartless robot. But he gave me something when I had nothing."

"You don't need to explain it to me"

"I know, but I want you to understand. After a very rough part of my life that I cannot talk about right now, the only thing I knew how to do right, was fighting. I was good at researching, I was exceptional at studying, but I was blocked. I woke up in the middle of the night, every night because I learnt to sleep with one eye open. I couldn't function properly. He gave me the way of being my old self but with the handicaps of my new me. In a way, he saved me. He gave me something to live for."

"He took advantage of you"

"You might be right. It might be a Holmes' trait. After all, did not Sherlock do the same with you?" They stared at each other, a pregnant silence falling over them, weighting on their shoulders. She hoped for him to know, that in their similarities were her allegiances. "I might have had a very different life if it weren't for Mycroft. But this life just makes sense. I don't expect you to understand it."

"I do understand it."

"Yes, maybe you do."

* * *

15 of July 2012, was probably one of the quietest days in Hermione Granger's life. In some other situation, in some other time, the silence to which she woke up to would have been soothing, welcoming even. But ever since moving in, there was always some sort of noise in the background. Either John, or Mrs Hudson, or the shuttling down the street. That day, however, London had agreed on mourning Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't like if she wasn't expecting it. The previous days had mounted the tension. Mrs H had announced a week ago, that she would be expending a fortnight with her sister, under a poorly disguised lie of a doctor appointment. Molly, with whom Hermione had started to build a steady friendship over trash TV and crime series in the hospital room, had secured her place in a congress in Edinburgh. Mycroft hadn't even called, and he hadn't picked the phone when she called.

And then, there was John.

John was a complete different topic. After the conversation at the hospital, there had been an invisible rift between the two of them. It had been a little bit more than a month since her accident, and things had been rocky, to say at least. He was more taciturn, less chatty, and overall, less flatmate-like. They did not share meals, he rarely was up late in the living room and the word exchange had been reduced to pleasant morning of afternoon greetings, no matter how hard Hermione tried. She did not presume of knowing him as the back of her hand, but understanding people and seeing through them was a part of what she did for a living. She knew that deep down, he was somewhat touched that someone, even if it was the insufferable eldest Holmes, had cared about him enough after Sherlock had left this world. She also knew, that John hated lies. He had had a life-worth amount of them while following the detective around. John, as the soldier he will ever be, hated anything that implied not having all the information to base an action upon, just like her. Would he had known who she was and what she wanted before, she would have probably not be standing in that living room today.

That did not mean she wasn't worried. John was as predictable as he was not. When the good old John turned into Captain Watson, there was no way to know where he was. The graveyard was too obvious, and the first place anyone would look for him. Anyway, she had gone to Sherlock's tombstone, and had seen flowers that were at least a couple of days old, standard arrangement, austere, but not cheap. The other ones, bright yellow, were fresh, and combined with the ones she was herself carrying. So, John had been there, but he had, in a very military fashion, predicted her actions. He was not at home when she came back. It would be hours until Hermione heard the keys jingling at the door, followed by a soft thud of them falling to the floor. The door closed and the soft noises of a coat trying to be hanged told her that John was drunk. The footsteps were heavy, with more time in between them than those of a sober person would have. She left her cup and readied herself for a difficult night.

"I thought I was alone." John rested against the wall, almost losing his feet and falling right onto his bum.

"Well, you are not."

"I wish I were. Why aren't you with your friend?"

"Mary?"

"Not her. My-hip-croft"

"He hasn't answered my calls. And I was worried about you."

"Oh! Saint Hermione of the Poor was worried about old John Watson, weak extraordinaire" He looked at her, his eyes rimmed red from both crying and the alcohol. He smelled like tobacco and sweat, mingling with the stench of a crowded pub, fake leather and cheap whiskey. He looked menacing, the five o'clock shadow across his jaw giving him a menacing look. She felt small under his stare, under his anger, and her heart broke a bit more for him.

"No, you don't get to give me that look."

"What look John?"

"THE LOOK! The pitiful look that I have been seeing every fucking day for a whole year." He came closer, fitfully pacing the room like a caged lion, never taking his eyes off her, glinting. "I know what everyone thinks. That I'm nothing without Sherlock. That I was just a sidekick to keep close, to keep him sane. And the truth is, I cannot fucking move on. And when I thought I could, when things were falling into place, it turns out, that Mycroft Holmes is still very much in charge of my life."

"That is not true, John."

"THEN LEAVE!" He was breathing raggedly now, tears streaming down his face. "I DO NOT WANT ANYTHING FROM HIM. He could not protect his own brother; how does he think he is going to protect me?"

John left himself fall into his armchair, hand hiding his face away, sobbing into his hands. Hermione went to him and hugged him with every inch of her body, her own tears dampening her shirt. John fought against her just as fiercely, but out of sheer stubbornness, Hermione kept her arms around him, while he cried his frustrations and sadness.

"I'm here John, I'm not going anywhere. I promise, I give you my word, I won't leave you alone."

His arms found her waist, and slowly but firmly he hugged her back, his shoulder jerking up and down with each heartfelt sob. She cursed herself. She hoped she would never have to choose between Mycroft and John, because right now, right then, she knew there would be no way of doing so without breaking her in the process.

* * *

"Should I bother asking you how did you enter?"

"You really need better security."

"Did you pick the lock?"

"You are slacking. By the way, I've called a gardener to prune that ivy. A thief could come through the second-floor window" She turned around and wicked at him, holding a Victoria sponge cake with a candle on top, while humming a birthday song. She came to him and practically thrust the cake under his nose, prompting him to give a very Mycroft trademarked exasperated look. Hermione then started to sing out loud and moved the cake in front of him, almost touching his face with the fire of the candle.

"Could you stop?"

"You know what you have to do for me to stop."

Reluctantly, Mycroft blew the candle, putting the cake on the table. Hermione then sat the plates and went to look for the forks.

"How's John?"

"Not good." She appeared back in the living room, cutlery in hand. "He wasn't talking, he doesn't tell where he goes or with whom. I know it's Mary because she tells me, but anyway. And Sherlock's death anniversary hasn't made it better. We had a massive argument, and then a good cry. He was very shaken up. He's better now, he's requested a couple of days off and he's visiting his therapist. He wanted to get away somewhere, maybe to the beach, for I talked him out of it, just in case." She turned to Mycroft. "How are you?"

"I am good."

"You know you really don't have to -"

"I am fine, really. My parents thank you for the flowers, by the way. Mother said they were lovely."

"It was nothing. How are they holding up? I thought about calling them, but it did not feel correct."

"They are fine, I guess."

Hermione, that was leaving the forks next to the plates, stopped mid-motion. "You guess?"

"I haven't talked to them. They sent a message with the photo and a thank you note."

"It was your brother's death anniversary, and you haven't called your parents?" She asked, incredulous.

"I fail to see how my brother being death for 365 days is in any a special date."

"It's not…It's remembrance. You were hellbent into protecting him, I don't know how can you be so pragmatic about it now."

"Alive he meant something. Dead, he is just flesh rotting away five feet under."

"You machine! He was your brother!"

"And crying about him won't bring him back! I thought you were above all this nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, it's being human!"

"Well, being human had never brought anything good to anyone I know." Mycroft stare was hard and unwavering, the same gaze that had broken terrorists and had terrorized international leaders. "Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side. And as long as I live, and as long as I have a whole country depending on me, I won't make that mistake."

"Not even for your brother?"

"That is not the question, is it dear? You want to ask, not even for you?"

Her chest was moving rapidly, her anger making her magic shimmer underneath her skin.

"You know the answer, Hermione. You know what I have done for Sherlock. You know to what extent I was willing to bend the rules for you."

Hermione did not see anything, but her expression gave her away.

"Oh, I see. I disappoint you."

Mycroft stood next to the windows, with his hand in his pockets, a cynical smile plastered on his features. "Well, dear, you have had years of knowing me. You know where my beliefs stand and where my loyalties lie. And you know my red lines. This should not come as news to you." He came to her, almost touching, and look down to her, his posture making clear had the upper hand. "Sentiment is making you weak. The Hermione that came asking for a warrior position wouldn't have even blinked before a crying John Watson. Now you admonish me for my nonexistent grieving. Maybe you should rethink if this line of work is suitable for you anymore. You are dismissed. Come to me when you have made your choice."

She could not believe that this man was almost firing her. She saw him going away, leaving the room, the expensive cake on the table long forgotten. She let out a shaky breath, and with her thumbs, she dubbed the tear that was gathering in the corner of her eyes. Hermione left the house and started walking down the sidewalk, the light summer wind drying her cheeks and calming her. Thoughts came and went, but a persistent feeling stayed, a nagging sensation of having watched something out of place. A disguise is always a self-portrait. What about a self-portrait disguise? How about someone being themselves too perfectly?

A distant idea lingered on the edges between her consciousness and her intuition. Would have the series of events taken a different turn, how would it look like? What would have she done if it was he in the situation?

Was Mycroft, the master of secrets, hiding something? If so, what?

* * *

 **Notes**

Here it is. First of all, a million thanks to those who liked, followed or reviewed the last chapter. As I said, it was really important for me. I hope this chapter is also to your liking. Second, I am sorry for the lengthy wait, this chapter was probably the one that I had to do from scratch, as the ideas I had did not fit with the story line.

Also, I know John and Mycroft might come across as a bit OoC. But my point is, we know John had a very difficult time (in canon, he didn't even call Mrs H). So, and according to psychological assessment of him that I found online, I think he is prone to outburst of anger, that I guessed would be worse around Sherlock's death anniversary. As for Mycroft, my opinion is that he tried so hard to be more Mycroft then before to not raise suspicion than Hermione picked that up.

Again, I am sorry for any grammatical mistakes. I wanted to give you this as soon as I could, so I revised less than normal. Word says it is fine, but I do not believe it.

Next chapter: Hermione has an important confrontation. John gets a gift, and Mary gets a chance of happiness. And we get to see Sirius again!

I hope you've liked this,

Beth


	7. Past present

**Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: "Past present"**

A cloud of smoke blurred the images of the people on the street, packing the sidewalk towards Covent Garden Market, almost stepping to the rhythm of a silent song. She stubbed the cigarette on the ashtray and leaned over the handrail, letting the wind caress her face. While overlooking the busy city underneath her, Hermione reflected in the last days. The Olympics Summer had brought ten times the people London usually held, and being out or walking had been completely unbearable, like being in a crowded tube car 24/7. But it wasn't the number of people what had had her on edge, it was the implications of it: possible attacks, underground networks ready for a heist, prostitution rings, magically enhanced performance drugs. And despite that, she had not heard from anyone of the MI7. She was not ready to go back to the field; her wound was still tender. But she had been healthy enough to do paperwork or overseeing an operation from the control room. Still, she had stayed at home, cosying herself in the black leather armchair and being accompanied by a very much talkative Mrs Hudson. Or had thrown herself on the chaise-long on Sirius' terrace soaking up the sun, hearing him talking on the phone and giving orders she was not allowed to know about.

The truth was, that being in good terms with John, enjoying the free time with Mary, laughing with Sirius and Mrs Hudson, or having found a very interesting chat partner in Molly Hooper, nothing could hide that she still missed Mycroft. It was very rare for her to find herself in a position where she would not know how to proceed, but Mycroft was not a usual situation. He was cold as he was caring, but if there was something he valued and cherished more than anything was his level-headiness and his decisions, taken in the most unattached manner. He prided himself on being capable of striping a situation of any kind of human values and decide upon the bare facts. Her, by challenging his decisions, had challenged the most primal part of his being. And she had no idea about what to do with that. Even her own disappointment had been a surprise for her. She liked the way Mycroft proceed. That had saved a lot of lives, more than she could probably know. But that level of disconnection had been too much regarding his own brother.

She, lost in thought as she was, did not hear Sirius approaching until his hand made contact with her shoulder, gently traveling up and down her upper back in a soothing gesture.

"Ready for lunch?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes watching as a young couple took their crying son from the ground.

"He'll come around."

An involuntary sigh made past her lips, and gave a half shrug.

"We'll see"

* * *

September came and went, and it took with it the green of Regent's Park to leave a myriad of hazel colours in its place. October brought enough cold as for Mrs Hudson to light up the fire in their living room, filling the place with its smell and its warmth. But it also brought a very nervous Sirius, fidgeting with his phone like a teenager about to ask someone for a first date, in front of a tea one Sunday afternoon. He could not fool her. He did his best to keep the conversation light, but it felt like if there was a crescendo happening, an anticipation of the unknown that was getting on Hermione's nerves. Finally, with the second cup, all irrelevant topics already covered and the sun almost invisible over the tree line, he had asked her if she was going to spend his birthday with him this time around. She had cocked an eyebrow at him. He always celebrated his birthday with Harry. In all the years she had passed for his daughter, that was the only remarkable day they had never spend together.

 _" I am not sure I understand, Sirius. Does Harry have an assignment?"_

 _" I thought, that now they know that you and I have a... close, relationship, maybe we could...Spend it together"_

 _"Spend it together as in all of us?"_

 _"I have rented a cabin near Winchester. Big enough for all of us, for all the weekend."_

 _"I am not sure this is a good idea, Sirius."_

 _" Hermione, I just... I want to have my family together for my birthday." He kneeled in front of her, and took her right hand between his, pressing a tender kiss on top of hit. "As far as I am concerned, I have two children. Yeah, I know, they do not talk to each other, but my birthday is never complete without you. Now that they know the truth, I just want to be with my two kids without missing any of them"_

She had a déjà vu in that moment, like if she was seeing prisoner PZ390 instead of Lieutenant Sirius Black from MI7. Her heart ached for the person that she considered her father, ached for the man that had spent so much time without a family, and that had chosen to have two different lives just to save her from pain. She had been unable to say no.

So, on Saturday, 3th of November, she had taken her mother's old Benz, driving along M3. Hermione took a swing from her second double coffee that morning. She had not slept, thinking about how many things could go wrong. Hermione could not phantom how was she going to spend 48 hours with people she had not speak with for 18 years. Will they start yelling each other? Will they berate her for her stunt at the Ball? Will they ignore her, enough as to have a quiet weekend? She was abruptly taken out of her daydreams when her GPS, that she had completely forgotten to charm, started to beep and lose signal, the screen turning on and off until it finally went black. Not even 10 minutes after, she stopped the car in front of a large country house, next to Sirius' car. Picking up her bag, she climbed the few steps that led to the open main door, hearing noises of pots being moved, and voices and steps creaking over the old wooden floors. She followed them, and soon she found herself at the entrance to the kitchen, feeling completely out of place. There they stood the complete Weasley family, including in/laws, in what wizards called "casual attire", in contrast to her leggings, trainers and an oversized jumper. Harry and Sirius were next to the cookers with a redheaded girl not older than 4 years old tucking from his trousers while Ginny sat with Lavender and a bunch of magazines on the table. Ron, Neville and George were hanging magically several birthday decorations, while Mrs Weasley was moving her wand in different directions, several dishes being made at the same time. A small kid stumbled into Hermione's back and she heard a small voice, everyone turning to her.

"Sorry Miss"

"Albus I've told you thousands of times to not to run inside."

Hermione looked down and saw painfully identical version of Harry should have been when he was six years old. She kneeled and looked straight into his green eyes, making him recoil a little.

"No harm done dear. But you should obey your Mum, you could get hurt."

"Yes Miss."

"I am Hermione." She stretched her hand, that he promptly took, shaking it exaggeratedly, like any four years old.

"Her/ny?"

"No Al, you are saying it wrong. Is Her/mi/ny." Another voice came from behind, a young redheaded girl holding a doll.

Hermione giggled, as she had been in this position quite a few times before.

"You can call me Minnie. That's what I used to call myself when I was little. Like Minnie Mouse."

"Who's Minnie Mouse?"

"No one." Lavender had stood and ushered the kids to the next room. "Go play with the rest. Come on."

"Hon" Sirius wiped his hand on a tea towel and came to her, that was still looking the door from where the kids had disappeared. "I'll show you your room."

It did not take more than 10 minutes in the house for Hermione to be convince that her presence was not welcomed. Everyone had avoided her to have any contact with the children, and had restricted the conversation to private business that she had no knowledge of. Some of them, like George or Bill had remained on the sidelines, not taking part of any conversation. The only salvation was Luna, that as always, could not care less about what everyone thought and had engaged Hermione in a conversation about her latest discovery, a purple snake from the Amazon Forest that caused a sexual impotence with its bite.

They sat all together for dinner, after a toast in Sirius' honour. After his small speech saying thank you to all of them, the only sound where the noises of cutlery against the plates and the children's voices. Sirius took upon himself to start a conversation.

"So, what are you currently working on at the joke shop, George?"

"Well, we are trying to expand. We are on speaking terms with the owners of Honeydukes. I mean, they are getting old, and their children do not want to continue the family business."

"Bloody morons, if you ask me." Said Ron. "Honeydukes is very profitable, they always a steady income of customers."

"Well, I guess that's good for us. We will probably separate comestibles and pure joke articles if we manage to get a good deal."

"What happened with your shoulder, Hermione?" Luna asked, surprising everyone. Hermione, that had changed to a comfortable big t-shirt, had not realised that the neck had slipped past her shoulder, leaving out a scar from where the bullet had left her body.

"I got shot a couple of months ago. It comes with the territory, I guess."

"Sirius never told us." Neville had decided to follow his wife's cue " What is that you do for a living?"

"She is a secret service agent." Sirius interjected "She works for the British Government... Well, both Governments."

"What does that mean? I am the head of the Magical Law Enforcement. I have no record of her working for us."

"Well, it is not exactly like that, Harry." Hermione decided to try and make small conversation, even if it was just for Sirius sake" I work for the MI7 which is the sub-division of magic of the secret service. Well magic related problems. Because we mostly deal with wizards tampering with muggles or muggles working with wizards."

"Shouldn't we be the ones dealing with that, dear?" Said Ginny looking to Harry

"Yes, we should. Why are we not, Sirius?"

"You deal with wizards within the magical world. They deal with the ones that get too forward and decide to cause trouble among muggles."

"It is the same thing. We have a department for inadequate use of magic."

"Honestly, that department deals with teacups with teeth and magically flushing toilets." Said Hermione, dabbing her mouth clean with her napkin "We deal with magical enhanced weapons, those sorts of things."

"It still should be our jurisdiction."

"Harry, they do a great job and it leaves you to deal with the problems you have always dealt. Personally, I think this compartmentalization is beneficial for all of us."

" I don't know how the muggles have power in any of this, that's all." Ginny's opinion was welcomed with several head nods "They have no idea about magic, so people like Hermione should be under our control, not theirs."

"Well, you have no idea how the muggle world works, so that makes it our business."

"But they work with magic. It falls within our competences. We would do a good job, maybe even better than you."

"Oh yes, please enlighten me, Chief, how did you deal with the Hofstadter case?"

"How do you know about that case?"

"Because it was us who had to deal with the consequences. Because the then Head of the department took the custody from us. And you did not know how a drug ring worked, or who was the target because you know nothing about the muggle world. The only thing you knew is that there was euphoria potion inside the pills. Your damn pride took some of our best agents away because when you decided to leave it to us, the ring was almost a cartel in the centre of London"

"They made a mistake just like in every investigation. You can hardly blame them for just one case"

"Ronald, with all due respect that I am capable of, your knowledge of the muggle world is still in early 1900, at its best. When we were at Hogwarts, the most advanced contents of the Muggle Studies curriculum were that Muggles had invented the telephone. The world has evolved quicker than you have. How will you deal with beast black-market done through channels of the deep web and paid in coins? How are you going to intercept conversations if they are done through burn phones and not owls? How will you chase someone around London if you have to check the tube map every 5 minutes? How are you even going to go undercover when you don't know how to work a smartphone?"

Everyone shut, even the children were looking between Hermione and Harry.

"Bittycoin? What is a bittycoin? Like a galleon?" Arthur

"Nothing important Dad. Kids, go with Grampa Arthur to the kitchen for cake." Ginny looked to Hermione, daggers leaving her eyes but waited until the adults were alone. "You really think muggles are better than us, don't you? That you are better than us?"

"Yes, I do muggles are better than wizards."

The affirmation earned her a sonorous disapprobation across the table. Everyone was talking at the same time, but she held herself just as Mycroft had taught her: relaxed posture but hard eyes, chin up, evaluating the opponent as if you knew everything they could possibly do.

"How dare you?" Lavender's voice sounded high above the rest as she stood up "You shouldn't be allowed to carry the title of witch"

"Why, because I am proud of my muggle inheritance? Because I chose to live like a muggle?"

"No one in their right mind would chose to abandon magic" Said Ron, coaxing his wife to sit back down.

"You don't see, don't you?" Hermione straighten herself, looking for the first time directly in the blue eyes she herself adored once upon a time "I did not abandon magic. I abandoned the magic world."

 _'I abandoned you'_

"Semantics, Hermione."

"No, it is not. Magic is a wonderful thing, it is part of me, something that makes you feel alive. But the magic world? You have not progressed. You still use owls, write with quills. You have isolated yourself from the world, you rarely see anything outside your houses or work because you travel everywhere by flu. Your numbers are less and less every day." She felt the tight knot in her heart starting to get loose. The one that hid every disappointment, every regret, every opinion she had on the magic world. Like an eat slugs spell, the words were creeping up her throat, ready to be expulsed. "And you know what? Because I've seen what the muggle world can offer, why would I give up that for this? We, in all our simplicity, and stupidity, and lack of magic, we have been able to travel to the moon, to cure cancer, to fly. We have done things like you, and way bigger things, without magic, just with our minds and our effort. I am very proud of being magical, but I despise with every fibre of my being the magic world. Because you have nothing that could possibly spark anyone's curiosity further away from the surface. You are all façade."

"If you despise us so much how is it that you are still working for us?" George had not said a word since she arrived, and his voice seemed unused. She could also sense a tint of sadness.

"Because someone needs to protect you from being discovered."

"We don't need you. We are wizards, a couple of muggles against us is nothing."

"I'd love to see what you little wands can do against an AK-47, Ronald. We do not live in the sixteenth century. Muggles do not use fire and swords as weapons anymore."

"I think that is quite enough." Sirius raised his voice, and Hermione came to the world again. His eyes were hard, serious. He looked at her and she moved in her seat, ashamed. "Let's just have a dinner in peace, all of you."

"You shouldn't have invited her, Sirius." Harry apparently was not going to back down without a fight. "She hasn't been one of us for a very long time."

"Harry, I've said...-"

"No Sirius, she left us, and now she comes as if nothing had happened, and on top of that, calling us incompetent? That's how you want us to get to forgive you Hermione?"

"Harry, that's enough!"

"That I abandoned... Forgive me?" Hermione was almost hyperventilating, she had risen from her seat, and had freed herself from Sirius hand that had tried to avoid her from standing up. "That _I_ abandoned _you?_ You, of everyone?"

The table went silence, looking between the former best friends, both staring at each other. The magic was revolving around probably the most powerful people in the room, angry.

"I, that lost holidays with my parents because I wanted to make sure you were alright? I, that was always at your beck and call even after being left out? I, that followed you into fucking hell and back, that almost died for you, that gave years of my life for you. I, that was fucking marked in order to keep you safe. I lied my life at your feet and you still have the nerve of saying that _I_ abandoned _you?_ "

Sirius got up and tried to pry her away from the table, but she would not be moved, and her magic sent a small shock to Sirius.

"Have you ever stopped and think how many things I left behind because of you? Do you know how it feels like that your relatives that abused you deserved a protection while they left my own parent to their own devices?

She felt a sob coming to her. She had kept this quiet ever since she went away. She had mulled those words over and over for years, crying herself to sleep out of pure anger, of pure heartbreak. She had imagined Harry's face in every dummy she had destroyed in her first year in the academy, she had dreamt of standing before him and tell him how much she wished she had never met him.

"And I never, NEVER, asked anything in return. Because I was your friend, your _fucking_ sister. " She pointed at him, while her voice broke. She gave a sigh, only to continue, stronger, commanding, cold. "Because I lamely thought, that when the time came, you'd stood by my side, when I needed your help. But you weren't. You of all people weren't. You chose their side ..."Said pointing to the Weasley" You chose this world, and you chose anger. And you never asked, or stopped and think, what was I feeling, or what did I thought, or even if I was doing OK! You saw how everyone dismissed me, how everyone thought I was too broken as for my ideas to be good, even if one of them brought Sirius back. But you were supposed to know me. You were supposed to be the one to help me pick up my pieces as I had done with you. We were family. But you didn't even try. Did I abandon you? No. _You abandoned me._

"That's hardly fair" Ginny stood in front of her husband, protecting him." He had just died, we had just gone through a lot of losses. We were hurting."

"And I wasn't, Ginny?" Hermione approached her, fierce and daring, with a hate in her eyes that made Harry take the redheaded one step back." You lost a brother due to a war. You don't know how sorry I was. We lost Remus, and Tonks and all of us cried for Teddy, and Colin, and everyone we buried. The difference is that you had each other, like a family, always asking each other about how you were. I was there, consoling you. But for me? I _fucking_ obliviated my parents. I lost everything during the war, and still, I stood beside you, I was there. But apparently, I wasn't allowed to grieve. Because your losses were somehow more important than mine. Fred Weasley stands remembered every year as a hero. But no one remembers Jean and Halden Granger."

She turned around and looked at that people for whom at some point in her life she would have given everything up, wiping furiously the angry tears that were running freely. They looked remorseful, but what was the point now? Everything was done, and the words said could not be taken back. Sirius took her hand and this time Hermione had no strength for getting away. His other hand was placed on her waist and he pulled her away from the table and took her upstairs, gently letting her follow him, never letting go of her hand. When they reached her room, she started to tremble, and when she felt herself being enveloped in Sirius' arms, she started crying like she had not in years, until sleep claimed her.

* * *

She woke up the next morning with the stuffed nose of someone that had spent hours crying. She took a shower and changed into new clothes, packing her bag. She felt tired, as tired as if she had run a marathon. She let her feet carried her to the kitchen again, where pretty much the whole family was silently eating. Sirius was the first to see her and gave a sad smile to her packed things. She cleared her throat and looked at Harry, that wore the same tired face she had seen in the mirror.

" Before I leave, there is something I want to tell you." She took a deep breath. "As much as I've tried, I cannot hate you. I should, but I can't despite everything. You were a big part of my life and of who I am right now, you were my family, for better or worse. But I will never forgive you. You had the power of destroying me and you did. You took care of everything before me because you thought I would be there, as always, Hermione Granger waiting for her turn to be repaired. You were comfortable knowing that I was the one person that would never go away, but I did because I was tired of being the best second. And I don't regret it.

" You should have said something, Hermione. "

"That's not the point, Harry. The point is that you should have been there when I had no voice. I'll see myself out."

She threw her bag in the boot of her car when she heard Sirius voice.

"I am sorry for bringing you here. I should have known better, but I was just so excited of having you all together that I guess I wasn't thinking straight"

"I know, I don't blame you. I have put you in an awful position for the past years. I am sorry for have ruined your birthday"

"Don't. I am sorry honey, I truly am"

Hermione took his face between her hands and kissed his cheek, before giving him a hug

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, my darling. More than anything in this world"

* * *

She made it to London around mid-afternoon on Sunday. She saw John standing in from of the TV, where a handsome, curly haired, blue eyed man stood still, the image paused.

" Hello John"

He turned around, his eyes glistening but with a smile on his lips.

" Hi. Lestrade came by, he had found this and wanted me to have it. It is from last year's birthday, Sherlock sent it to me, this is the "director's cut".

Hermione stared at the TV image, her eyes trailing along the detective's tailored suit, to his pianist long fingers and strong hands. ' So, this is Sherlock Holmes?'

"Would you watch it with me? I do not feel like watching it alone."

Hermione nodded and John played the video. The deep voice of the detective made her take a sharp intake of breath, and his movements had her eyes glued to the screen. She heard distantly John's chuckles, but her attention was focused on the cadence of the perfect, posh accent of Sherlock Holmes. When the video ended, she was the first one in speak.

"He doesn't seem as heartless as everyone says he was."

"He wasn't."

"He was just socially stupid, then?"

"Probably, yes... " He finished the last of his bourbon" What about you, I wasn't expecting you until Monday morning. What happened?"

"Do you remember one of those things I told you they were not your business? "

"Yes?"

"Well, I had a confrontation today, with those things."

"Do those things have a name?" John filled the glass again but this time he gave it to her. "And by the way who says confrontation these days? They are not your archenemies or something"

Hermione smiled before taking a sip, coughing slightly "Have you ever felt this feeling of seeing someone you care about but not being able to reach out, because they are no longer the people you remember?"

"People change. It is what it is, and what it is-"

"Shit"

"Indeed." He sat down and twiddled his thumbs, watching her sat across him. "Now it feels almost unfair to tell you my news"

"No need, Mary sent me a text from the loo last night when you asked her to be your girlfriend. I saw it this morning, but I got the message. I believe congratulations are in order."

"I am me, you know. I always find a way to screw things over."

"Well "three continents Watson", I think you won't."

He groaned and hid his head between his hands "Mike?"

"It was Mary, actually. Proud aren´t you? You tell everyone apparently..."

"Anyway." He got up, closing the conversation. She will remember him every time she could "Mary will be coming over for dinner so I might as well tell Mrs Hudson."

"Tell me what? Oh, hello Hermione, I thought you were out?"

"Mrs Hudson, just the person I was looking for. Well, I've got news."

"Oh God is it serious? Is that why Hermione's back?"

"What?" Hermione looked to Mrs Hudson, her eyes rapidly tearing

"No! No, I am not ill. I am dating someone"

"Oh, lovely" _Mrs Hudson giggles with delight. Clapping her hands, she walks towards him smiling happily._

"Well I mean, we have been dancing around each other for a while" Hermione chuckled and cough something that sounded like 'Ages', while John smiled playfully" -but well, we have decided to go for it."

"Oh, so soon, after Sherlock"

"Well, yes"

Hermione laughed again at John's face, who apparently was not aware of where the conversation was heading.

"What's his name"

John _let out a huge exasperated sigh "I_ t's a woman"

"A woman?" Hermione was making huge efforts for not to laugh again when she looked at the confused face of the older woman.

"Yes, of course it's a woman, you know her, it's Mary, Hermione's friend."

"You really have moved on, haven't you?"

"Mrs Hudson, how many times...? Sherlock was not my boyfriend."

Mrs Hudson went to the door giggling and turned to John, smiling.

"Live and let live, that's my motto"

"Listen to me, I am not gay!" John shouted after her, with Hermione laughing away, her stomach hurting.

"John, seriously, thank you. This was priceless, I wish I had recorded it for Mary."

* * *

 **Notes:**

Hi all! I am sorry for how long has it been. But from this chapter on, I am going to start introducing actual conversations from the show (just like this bit between John and MrsH). We are getting close to Sherlock's re-appearance (we are 3-4 chapters away) and I need to make sure that me introducing Hermione doesn't screw the rest of the magnificent script of the episodes.

I also hope that the confrontation makes sense. As I've said before, Hermione is one of the strongest characters in any book I've read. If I were her, seeing Harry's relatives being taken care of and my own loving, muggle parents being left out, I would have been furious. In general, I think that none of them deserved everything she did for all of them because she was always second best. The thing with the books is that they are so focused on magic that they never show Harry or Ron being interested in anything Hermione was before being a witch, almost if it was something to hide and never talk about. And I think Hermione, after the war, would have just said screw this. That's what the Hermione I have in my head would have done.

I hope you liked it :)

Next chapter: Chapter 8, "A Christmas Carol". Mycroft gets a New Year's surprise. Hermione's brain starts to work. Mary decides to let the past rest.


	8. A Christmas Carol

**Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

By the way, my deepest thanks to all of you that reviewed, favourited or followed the story. It really warms my heart to see how many of you seem to like what I write. I promise I will continue working on this amazing story.

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 8: "A Christmas Carol"**

"John, you need to pick up with your knees. And mind the wall! We don't need more scratches."

"Mrs Hudson! What do you think I am doing?" John, in precarious balance between two steps, was clearly not in the mood for scolding.

"John!" Hermione, who was a few steps up, was looking at him over her shoulder. "Do not pick at the branches, you are going to break all the needles!"

" It's heavy!"

"John, the wall!"

" I KNOW."

Hermione entered the living room, drops of sweat running down her forehead from underneath her winter beanie. Inside her gloved hands, there was the top half of a five feet Christmas tree, while the last part of it was barely been carried by a very red-faced, breathless John. The moment he entered the room, he dropped unceremoniously the pot on the floor, almost hitting Hermione on the face with the branches, positively blocking the entrance to the flat.

"I need a tea" John went to the kitchen and got the kettle started ignoring the dirty glare the woman was throwing him and brushed his hands clean. "We are still 10 days away from Christmas. Why have we bought it so early?"

"Because..." Hermione, who was nothing if not stubborn, was moving the tree towards the window, dangling it from side to side, leaving a trail of soil on the carpet. "...it is my first Christmas at Baker Street. I want the Christmas spirit to be around for more than a couple of days."

"You do love Christmas, don't you?"

Hermione, that had managed to get the tree close to the window, stood there, contemplating her hand work. She turned to John and flashed him a smile, that was promptly returned. Never mind John was not into Christmas, she thought, while browsing through the box of Christmas decorations. She had enough Christmas spirit for the whole household. She had started to align the balls into the table, looking at how John had sat on his chair, reading the paper. The thing she had learnt to appreciate about John is that he was a more intuitive, sensible man than what anyone gave him credit for. She had not needed to tell him that she enjoyed decorating the tree by herself, but he had also wanted her to know he was there if she needed him. While carefully snaring the lights around the tree, the only idea in her mind was that John was, indeed, a wondrous man.

* * *

Ten days have passed since the colourful lights in Baker Street's tree had been glowing every night. And while it was still next to the open window, the rest of the furniture had suffered a drastic reorganization: the infamous armchairs were pushed against the wall, and their place was taken up by a big table, where Hermione was putting the silver crackers next to each plate. In less than six hours, herself, John, Mary and Mrs Hudson would share a very traditional English dinner, and just the thought of it was making her all dizzy with joy, and this warm feeling of happiness was spreading through her. She knew it was ridiculous, but there was something in the bright golden garlands, silly songs and small reindeers that made her happy, in the most childish, innocent way. It might have been a sheltering technique: after all the dark times she had seen and lived, she had learnt to cherish the simple glee of the season. Or maybe she had way too many good memories about Christmas as to leave the dread to tarnish them. Whatever it was, she thought, it was worth celebrating it.

It was also the first year to have people around to spend it with. The past years, she had chosen to stay in her old parents' house, cooking her mom's old roasted potatoes recipe, putting on her dad's favourite and horrendous Christmas carol and wearing the traditional jumper with big snowflakes. Having decided to sell the house, it was time for new traditions and something that felt very close to a family. The other part of her family, would have to wait until next day when she would literally drag a very hungover Sirius out for an English breakfast. The other part of her life, however, could not care less for Christmas or traditions. And apparently, not even for her.

The closing of a door brought her back from her thoughts before they drifted towards Mycroft once again. The floor under her feet trembled a little to the beat of steps echoing in the staircase, followed by a faint knocking on the open door.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Greg!" Hermione approached him with a smile and prompted him to sit on the couch, which he declined with his head. "What a surprise!"

"I just came by to give my season's good wishes to all of you."

"Well, thank you, Greg. It's just me now, but I'll make sure to pass them along." She watched him awkwardly standing, looking at the big table and her ridiculous Christmas jumper. "You look tense. Are you sure you don't want to stay for a cuppa?"

"I have a couple of things to finish before going home."

"Come on, what can be so pressing on Christmas Eve day?"

"Nothing pleasant." He sighed "I'll take that tea."

Hermione went to the kitchen and started the kettle, while the man made himself comfortable on the couch, discarding his scarf. Pouring the water over two fresh tea bags, she made her way back to the room.

"There you go. " She sat down and sipped, observing. Lestrade had sat down as if he were exhausted and had gulped half of his tea, closing his eyes and resting on the seat. " I hope I am not being nosy if I ask you what is that so unpleasant about today."

"Apart from having to share a dinner with my ex-wife?" He joked "Well...The Yard ceased one of my forensic team last week. They considered him 'unfit for the role'. Today I am delivering the report to the head of the Department, and after that, it will be a fact."

"Not a very sensible thing to do, being holidays and all." She took a sip. "Are they right? "

"Of course they are bloody right! Anderson has been going on and on about Sherlock being alive for the past months."

That sparked Hermione's interested. If she remembered correctly, Mycroft had briefly mentioned someone with that name being behind the police persecution of Sherlock. Why would he investigate now? Even more, what did he knew and why was he so convinced he was right? With all this question starting to build up in her head, she tried to appear confused.

"Sherlock as in Sherlock Holmes?"

"Bloody mental. Everything he has are these weird cases happening around the globe, whose access I have no idea how he got! Most likely using police resources, which is, of course, a different offence altogether."

"That's a very specific brand of crazy"

"Guilt, that's what it is. He and others drove him to the verge of insanity and now he feels responsible."

"Not an easy situation."

"No, it's not…" He sighed and got up, putting the scarf back again "Listen, do you think you could keep this between us? I don´t think it would sit well on John, and he is back to normal after everything…"

"Don't even mention it. My lips are sealed"

Greg left after finally wishing good Christmas, leaving Hermione with more questions she usually liked to have. Things were strangely getting twisted, like a necklace that had been pushed into a drawer for way too long. And although Christmas Eve (and the subsequent Christmas day hangover) had momentarily vanished her concerns, Boxing Day brought Hermione a very much willing Mary that promised to look into the incidents Greg mentioned. It would be up to her to deal with the other piece of the puzzle: Mycroft.

* * *

"So, about this man Molly's bringing..."

"Yes?"

"Do you know him? What do you know about him?"

Hermione looked at John in the mirror above the fireplace, while putting on her earrings.

"For the umpteenth time, no, I haven't met him. Neither have Mary or Greg. I only know he is tall and dark-haired, and that his name is Tom. She only told us a couple of days ago. And you know this."

 _Flashback_

 _They had chosen the perfect day for Sunday brunch. The sun was high, warming her skin and her eyelids behind her sunglasses. Bundled up inside her coat, she had decided to sit outside the quaint old coffee shop in Belgravia. In a moment, the sun stopped and her eyes went darker as someone stood in front of her. As Hermione opened her eyes, she saw Mary, standing before her with her phone displaying an unsettling skull._

 _"Look what I found online" She sat opposite to Hermione, who took the phone and started scrolling down the page._

 _"'The empty hearse'. What is this?"_

 _"_ _Well, after you told me about Anderson being all obsessed with Sherlock, I went online. This is the unofficial Sherlock Holmes' fan club."_

 _Hermione snickered at that "Fan club?"_

 _"_ _Yeah, they discuss theories about how did Sherlock ended up being alive after the fall, they wear deerstalkers, they write very disturbing and somehow hot fanfictions about John and Sherlock... that sort of thing."_

 _"_ _You are joking."_

 _"_ _No, I am not. Sherlock Holmes has reached the same pop-culture status as Dr Who, Luke Skywalker or Elvis."_

 _"_ _Well, they do have a lot of information..." She kept scrolling, reading the headers of the different entries "I mean, this person...PA221b. Whoever they are they seem pretty thorough. Look at this: sightings, impossible cases that have been solved… There is even a report from a Russian newspaper that talks about an 'invisible hand that does what the police can't do'"_

 _"Read that. I won't consider that as relevant. That paper is the equivalent to the Magnussen media."_

 _"So sensationalist and unfounded. I really despise that man."_

 _"_ _Close that, Molly at 6 o'clock"_

 _Hermione shut down the screen and gave the phone back to Mary while turning to see the newcomer._

 _"_ _Hello Molly!"_

 _"_ _Hello sorry, I am late. I had an appointment with Mr Vanderbilt. Car crash, very messy."_

 _"_ _No worries, we were just chatting anyway."_

 _"_ _Yeah, I got a bit of a gossip from Mary here. She came across this very interesting thing on the internet. Did you know that there is a Sherlock fan club?"_

 _"_ _And I said to Hermione, that it seems to me that whoever runs it is bat-shit crazy."_

 _Molly shifted in her seat, and with a hint of sadness._

 _"_ _You should not believe anything that Anderson says. He used to work for the Yard."_

 _"_ _So the guy of the fan club is the same Greg told me about."_

 _"_ _I guess so…Anderson had become a bit of handful and paranoiac, skipping work, going on trips to nowhere. I think he has lost it."_

 _"_ _Yeah... Well, I mean, he seems to have spent quite a deal of time researching on this."_

 _"_ _They wear Sherlock hats, Hermione."_

 _"_ _And we all know, wearing merchandising is the trait of a true psycho."_

 _"_ _Why do I feel personally victimise, Mary?"_

 _"_ _Because I know you have a TARDIS tea holder, several geek tees and a disturbing fetish with guys that look like the bad guy from Thor."_

 _Hermione threw her a scrunched napkin that Mary deflected with her hand. "At least he doesn't play an undersized creature with hairy feet as that hobbit you like so much"_

 _Mary playfully hushed Hermione, giving her a rude hand expression. "I do believe Molly wanted to tell us something."_

 _"_ _Why do you say so?"_

 _"_ _You invited us for a brunch, Molls. And you normally don't eat after a gruesome patient."_

 _She mumbled under her breath something that sounded like 'I hate deductions', but she smiled at them all the same._

 _"_ _Well, I was wondering, do you mind if I bring someone along to the party?"_

 _"_ _Not at all. Baker Street will always be open to welcome one more."_

 _"_ _Is it this mysterious, tall, dark-haired man you have talked us about?"_

 _"_ _His name is Tom. We are kind of serious so I thought I might introduce him to you."_

 _"_ _Anyone is welcome at Baker Street Molly, you know that."_

"Meaning no background on him. Doesn't that sound suspicious to you? And I am asking from civilian to MI-6 agent."

She turned and sat in the armchair, putting on her heels.

"He is an accountant, John. I really doubt he poses any danger."

"She dated a psychopath and was in love with a sociopath. He has something, for sure."

"Now that you mentioned it, he has a shrine inside his wardrobe and bathes in blood during the full moon" She looked up from where she was tying her ankle strap to see the bewildered expression on John's face. "I am joking, John. Relax. He will be perfectly normal."

Not even ten minutes after the conversation Mary and Greg arrived, being welcomed with a glass of wine. Mrs Hudson was already comfortably seated on the couch, drinking her possibly second glass. They settled around the front room, waiting for the last guests to arrive before taking the food to the tables. The doorbell ringed and Hermione made her way to the staircase, yelling to Molly to come in and close the door, while Mary advised everyone to be kind to the new guest. Molly came into the room, followed by a really tall man, with messy dark hair, blue scarf securely fastened around his neck, in a dark, long coat.

"Hello everyone, this is Tom."

Hermione saw how John's eyebrows shot to his hairline and turned to look at her, presumably with the same astonished expression. Greg was the first one that went out of the stupor and quickly came to stretch Tom's hand. John did the same and excused himself to go to the kitchen, being followed by Hermione, that left the doors ajar.

"Did you, er ...?"

"Not saying a word, John"

"Yes, better not." He peeked through the small opening between the sliding doors, seeing how Mary interacted with Tom under the gaze of a very confused Lestrade. "But seriously?"

Hermione put a small cheese snack in her mouth and shrug her shoulders, wiping her hands clean.

"Maybe I was right, maybe he is a psychopath on the making."

"Because he looks like one?"

"Look at how he smiles, is almost unnatural. He wears the same blue scarf!"

"Well, they were very trendy a few years ago, if my mind serves me right. Primark did a Holmes-inspired section with hats, scarfs and shirts. Come on, they must be starving."

The night progressed as it should. Mary and John were being them, their playful banter filled with sex innuendos almost too much for her very sex-deprived self. Molly and Tom where sickly sweet to the point that John had to look somewhere else when they kissed because it felt "out of character". Greg and Mrs Hudson had apparently their own competition about who could drink more bourbon in less time, and by the looks of it, Greg was loosing. Her brain, idled from the alcohol and the mirth, had started to think about Mycroft, and Sherlock and all the conspiracy theory behind it. What if it was true? She would never know, being the things as they were between her -boss?- and her. Without noticing, her hand had reached for her phone and was playing with it, slowly twirling it. Approximately ten minutes before midnight, she had sent him a text, wishing a happy new year, waiting for her answer, just like every year. But after Greg and Mrs Hudson had departed, leaving her with two horny teenagers (a.k.a John and Mary) and two lovers sharing small kisses in front of the fireplace and there was still no answer, she felt her anger rising. For being such a posh, adult person, he could be such a child sometimes. It was downright childish to not answer a Happy New Year text. She stood up, almost losing her balance and went downstairs. She took her coat from the entrance and went to the cold air of December, with the firm intention of hailing a cab.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes indulged in very little things in his life. His body reminded him he was no longer as young as he would have liked to, so he had been putting himself on a very strict regimen. Diet, exercise, little smoking, no drinking. But today, welcoming a new year of political disturbances, intrigues and international mayhem seemed worth an aged bourbon and a cigarette while listening to the vibrant violins of Bach's sonata. The sound disturbed by the unpleasant noise of the doorbell. He decided to close his eyes. New Years's Eve was always filled with drunken teenagers and classless people, in general. But the noise happened again, and again, finally turning into a horrid tune similar to a carol. He went to open the door, ready to face probably a stupid boy unlucky enough to have chosen his house instead of any other. But on the other side was not a teen, but a young woman, clad in tailored Belstaff he recognised as his own gift, keeping balance on sky-high black stilettos, red cheeks from the cold and a stupid diadem with sparkly antlers.

"What are you doing here?"

"So harsh, Mike. Just dropping by to wish you a Happy New Year."

"You are drunk."

"Well, it is a new year Mike! We have to celebrate!"

"Who has brought you here?"

"This super nice Uber driver. No cab would take me can you believe it? I had to give him a very generous tip, but he dropped me right in front of your house." Hermione pushed him enough as to slip inside, slipping out of her coat and trying to hang it on the coatrack, failing. Not bothering with the quiet thud the coat made when touching to the floor, she continued to the living room. She did hear, however, the exasperated sigh that came from Mycroft. Probably flaring his nostrils, he does that all the time, she thought.

"I'll call John so he can come to pick you up."

"Don't bother! The last thing I saw of him was his hand scurrying under Mary's skirt, so I guess they are busy making babies now." She fell on the couch with a plof. Mycroft sat in the armchair opposite, his arms resting on his sides in his typical commanding posture. She knew it very well. Her mind could be a drunken mess but this was textbook, the position of someone demanding respect and showing power. Pity, she was not undeterred by his stunt.

"So, Mikey." The moniker escaped her lips, relishing how mad it made him. "We haven't talked in aaaaaages. And tonight, you deliberately decided not to answer my kind wishes".

"I am sorry, that was very impolite. Happy New Year."

"Too late. Now you owe me."

"Who says that?"

"I do. You have been av'hip-avoiding me." Hermione pointed at him, accusingly.

"I really think you are not fit for this conversation."

"I am perfectly fit for anything, Mycroft." If Mycroft understood the sexual connotations, he gave did not show it. Bastard. "Not the same about you, is that bourbon and ash from a cigarette?"

"You have very little moral ground right now for that." He was so easy, at the end. He could not help it, he always had to retaliate. "You should leave Hermione."

"Why? Are you busy? Do you have someone hiding in your room waiting for a New Year's scolding? Has someone been _naughty_? "She coked an eyebrow at him before turning her head to where she knew were the stairs, and yelled. "Go away darling, he is busy now."

"Stop behaving like a child! This behaviour is not among adults."

"Oh yes…" She unfastened her heels, kicking them off "Because it is way more adult ignoring someone that is supposed to work for you."

"Your attitude was not the one an agent of your rank should have had. You behaved like a spoiled child."

"I behaved like a human being!" She had stood on her bare foot, coming closer to him "I am so sorry our ordinariness offends you, your Highness."

"I cannot have a subordinate questioning what I do or why I do it"

She had recoiled like if touched with a living wire.

"Is that what I am now? A subordinate?"

"I need an armed hand, not a conscience." Mycroft had also stood up, looking at her in the eye. "People's life might depend on you following my orders."

"Are you seriously questioning my professionalism because I questioned your feelings?"

"No, I am questioning your work ethic because you cannot have those kinds of doubts on the field."

"You have never, ever doubted me or my opinions. In fact, you have always valued them. Why did you get so worked up with this?"

He went silent, still. She could feel it, the lie underneath the surface, the unsaid words lurking around the few sentences Mycroft had spoken. Had she had been less hurt and more focus, she might have prodded on it. But Mycroft had turned around and stepped in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back, and she had felt that she needed to get out of here with Mycroft by her side again.

"You know what I have been through. What if I like to think that you have my back? What if after all these years I have learnt to see behind that perfectly mask you like to carry on? I do not care if you show an ounce of feeling that you are so determined to hide. I do not need your words to know you care about me, as I did not need an expression to know how much you cared about your brother. I am used to your patronizing, and I am definitely used to your disregard for feelings. But I cannot stand your indifference, not when it is about people you have been protecting. And despite everything, I do trust you, Mycroft. And that is the biggest compliment I am capable of."

He turned back to watch her.

"I don't do feelings, Hermione. Feelings doom people and what it is more important, they doom a country. They doomed my brother. I won't make the same mistake."

She let her head hang low, feeling the impending flow of tears. Expensive Italian shoes were taping on the floor and a hand found her shoulder, gently caressing her.

"But I promise you, I will protect you, no matter what, no matter how. You have my word."

She looked up at him, and relief flooded through her. Tomorrow she will probably chastise herself for being weak, for having yield so soon and not having pressured him on Anderson's information. But for now, she let her head fall into Mycroft chest, tear staining his white shirt, like a lost kid that found her way home.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Hi all, I know it has been a while :) as I said, I am trying to incorporate bit by bit some of the things that have already happened in the TV series, so I hope it makes them justice. This chapter is not as long as the others, and it is because is more of a positioning of the characters. We start seeing Hermione connecting the dots about Sherlock. I also hope to liked the Easter eggs along the chapter!

The relationship between Hermione and Mycroft is very complicated and has been changing my mind quite a bit. As I see it, is a very weird mixture between father-daughter, brother-sister and lover one. Is probably (and not exactly, because I am no psychologist), like Stockholm syndrome. She feels grateful to Mycroft because he gave her a life purpose again, and at the same time he has become such a fixture in her life, and their relationship is so different to any boss-employee relationship that they have developed something else on top of that trust they have for each other. She has very few people in her life she actually cares and trusts on. Before John, she only had Mary, Sirius and Mycroft. Give me your thoughts.

I'll probably edit this, as it is very late and I do not think my brain has processed the typos very well.

Next chapter: Magic comes to Baker Street, Mary let's go of her past and John gets ready for the big question. SPOILER: next chapter will be the last before Sherlock comes back.


	9. A Study in Magic

**Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

By the way, my deepest thanks to all of you that reviewed, favourited or followed the story. It really warms my heart to see how many of you seem to like what I write. I promise I will continue working on this amazing story.

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 9: "A study in magic"**

Hermione closed her thin trench coat around her while walking towards the kissing gates of Chiswick Cemetery. The new, typical spring colours were starting to show around the trees, but May had come colder than expected. Certainly, colder than the last time she had been there, five years ago. Back then, a person she had shared a couple of dangerous missions had appeared in front of her door, battered, bruised and scared, and had asked her for help. Mycroft had reluctantly helped, and she had chosen her new identity in that same graveyard. Said friend, now blonde and wearing a red coat, was standing in between two cypress trees, staring at something at her feet.

"Hey." Mary turned to her, a small smile on her lips, and then looked back down to the stone at her feet. Hermione stood by her, shoulders brushing against each other. "I know you are kind of an emo but being at a graveyard in your birthday is a bit too much even for you."

Mary snorted and shook her head.

"I was born in October, remember?"

"Yeah, Mary Morstan was born in October. That's what her tombstone says."

They stood there in silence for a couple of minutes, until Mary talked.

"I've been thinking about my past lately."

Hermione gave a startled hum, a wordless question in it. Mary had a lopsided grin, raising her head and browsing her surroundings, and looked at the brunette.

"John said he loved my last night."

"Well, it was pretty obvious to anyone looking."

"But we had never said it. I mean it was there but putting a word on it...What I am really trying to say is that I've never had anyone like John. I have never been attached to someone enough as to be afraid of my past getting to them. Or for them to discover it."

Mary gave a profound sigh, and crossed her arms, bracing herself.

"You know about this job. It eventually catches up with you."

"You left. It is already behind you; your tracks are covered. And Mycroft and I are with you."

"You know, for being so clever, sometimes I wonder how is it that you trust that man so much."

"I think you have been subjected to John's opinions on him."

"Mycroft Holmes has no allegiances but England. You should do well on remember that."

Hermione moved on her feet, uncomfortable. Because in the last months, she had been asking herself exactly that. Was she naïve for trusting in Mycroft in the way she did? She was almost sure he was hiding something. She barely registered Mary taking her arm and linked her own with it while tugging her to the exit. Only the sound of the creaking leaves under their feet could be heard in the whole place.

"What are you thinking about?"

"It's just Mycroft has been different. Quiet. Like... You know when a kid tries to hide they have done something wrong so they start behaving extremely well? I have the same feeling."

"Well, I am not as close as you are to him, but I wouldn't be surprised if he is indeed, hiding something. But I have been with Molly quite a lot."

Hermione stopped, looking at her.

"I haven't been idle and her behaviour whenever that I say something remotely related to Sherlock, it changes, completely. She's been very adamant about Sherlock being dead. I mean, wouldn't you cling to hope?"

"She did his autopsy, I reckon. Maybe it is because she knows he is dead, so what's the point?"

"Maybe. Or maybe there's another explanation"

"What are you implying"

"I am just saying, that after hearing the greats and wonders of Sherlock and reading John's blog, and after all we know about the secret service, is it really such a farfetched idea?"

Hermione started walking again, leaving Mary behind. She did not really want to contemplate that option. "Mycroft would have told me"

But then, she heard Mary's voice.

"Would he?"

* * *

She was pissed. Thoroughly and utterly pissed. She held her wand tighter in her hand, swearing out loud when a stunning spell passed flying next to her head impacting with the wall behind her. She ducked and hide, wiping the blood coming from the cut above her left brow. She turned slightly, watching Mary and John behind some card boxes, both with their phones.

"Have you got a hold on Mycroft?"

"Not yet. It goes straight to voicemail."

She let her head fall against the bricks on her back, exhausted. They have been expecting this. Ever since the Ministry of Magic or more exactly, the DMLE had formally requested a bigger role in the magic related accidents in the muggle world, Mycroft and she have spent part of their time monitoring their advances. The smaller cases have been successful, but at some point in mid-March, a new potion called "fairy-tale" had sounded all the alarms. The DMLE had followed them and barely after two weeks of investigation they had disappeared into thin air. It was celebrated as a big achievement by the Aurors, who had thought they had felt cornered, but Hermione had had her doubts. And today, when a disarming spell had missed her for few inches while she was having brunch with Mary and John, she had known she had been right.

Back to the present, Hermione took her phone out of her breast pocket. The screen was damaged and the bottom part of it looked useless, but she hoped the camera still worked. She tapped on the blue button in the middle of the screen and put her eye within the camera's reach. The phone gave three beeps, the screen turning blue with a completely different display then the iOS. She threw the phone to Mary.

"Tap on the envelope and write a message to Anthea. Don't worry about the positions, they'll track us."

Mary stated typing while a new spell clashed with the shield she had put on the entrance of the alley, breaking through it. John had drawn a gun -his, she guessed, but what was he doing carrying a gun? - and stood by her side, with the weapon ready, full on soldier façade in place.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know what this is, or what you are. But right now, we need to get out of here. How many are there?"

She could not avoid the feeling of dread that knocked her stomach upon hearing him. 'Later. You'll deal with this later.'

"I took two out, but that one is relentless. And he has a very accurate aim."

"So, do I. Can you cover me?"

"What are you planning?"

"You cover me, I shoot. Do bullets hurt you?"

"I was in the hospital, John?"

"Right. To the count of three, you cover, I go out and shoot. One, two, three. "

Hermione pushed the strongest shield she had produced in her life, that was being tested by the non-stop assault of spells clashing against it. She was worried John could not see with all the sparks. John had stood still, gun ready, aiming. In the span of time that Hermione thought was a lifetime, she could hear three perfectly timed shots, and the spells stopped. She withdrew the shield, her heartbeat in her temples. Few meters away, the man lied in a pool of his own blow. Sirens started to be herd, and Hermione knew Mary had reached Mycroft, because his people had started to crowd the street, blocking it. Besides her, John was breathing rapidly, and honestly, she was not sure if it was out of exertion of if he was having a panic attack. Mary came to them, passing Hermione her phone. Mycroft would have probably ordered to take them home, so they needed to act quickly.

"I need to speak with Mycroft. John, I need your gun."

"Why?"

"As much as Mycroft has the Government under his thumb, we should have not intervened and much less you, a civilian and not a wizard. Give me that."

She took the gun out of his hands and cleaned it with her tee, before taking it and putting her fingerprints all over it. She put it in her jeans and looked at John.

"Listen. You go to Baker Street. I'll promise I will tell you everything. Speak with anyone with the blue badges, they will take you there."

She went inside of the alley and being just visible for John and Mary, she disappeared.

* * *

If it was not because he had seen how Hermione disappeared in front of his own eyes, he would not have believed any of it. He turned to his left to demand an explanation from Mary when a man in a suit with a shiny blue badge arrived at them.

"Doctor Watson, I have strict orders to take you and Miss Morstan to Baker Street."

They had not talked when entering the car, and mid-way through their journey, John had yet to open his mouth. His knuckles were almost white, clenching and unclenching his fists with such a force he was most likely about to draw blood on his palms. Mary waited because she knew, John would not last very long without exploding. It had looked like if he were about to talk, but he had remained silent as if he could not get his thought in order about what to say.

"Didn't you think it was an important thing to tell me, Mary?" His voice, barely above a whisper, was vibrating with anger "That I am... Jesus, that my flatmate is a..."

"A witch, John. Hermione is a witch." Mary's answer was equally as strong, jaw settled and eyes hard. John, upon seeing it, let go a breath and rubbed his hands on his face.

"This shouldn't be possible."

"Well, it is."

"Mary, we are a couple. We are supposed to not to have secrets between us!"

"John, I love you, I really do, but please, do not make me choose between you and her because you might not like the answer. "

"I am not making you choose!" His yell drew the attention of the driver, that looked at them over the rear-view mirror. Lowered his voice again. "But this is serious. We could have died in there!"

"Well, not as different as when you were running through London with a detective!"

"Do-not-go-in-there!"

"You'd have followed Sherlock down hell itself, and so do I with Hermione! Yes, we could have died. But she saved us, and that's all that matters."

John went quiet. He had to admit, that being in the middle of a fight, side by side with Hermione, firing his gun again... He missed it. He missed the thrill, the blood, and adrenaline pumping through his veins, the excitements blinding his thoughts and sharpening his senses, turning him into the soldier he had always been. Mary took his hand and interlaced her fingers with his.

"We have a very particular taste on friends, John." He looked at her. She was smiling and there was something on her smile that was as thrilling as a gunshot. That was what he had seen in her the first time, something like a mirror image of himself. And he could almost see why now: She also had a Sherlock. "We are drawn to danger, apparently. But we also know that they are the kind of people that would have our backs no matter what. Wasn't that what he did?"

"I... Christ, why does my life have to be so complicated? Couldn't she be normal?"

"We don't do normal. "

"She is the whole package, isn't she? Working for the bloody secret service and Mycroft Holmes. Compared to that, being a... witch, it's almost an anecdote."

* * *

Meanwhile, a black car stopped in the empty street of Scotland Place. Not waiting for the driver to open the door, a man dressed in a black three-piece suit exited, followed by a much less sharply dressed woman, that was covered in dust and had a gash on her forehead, dried blood still all over her face. The man started marching towards a rundown red phone booth, his firm step being punctuated by the sound of his umbrella knocking on the pavement.

"Mycroft, this is ridiculous" Had stood next to the car, apprehension dressing her features to the thought of entering the Ministry in the middle of the afternoon. Mycroft, on the other hand, continued walking ignoring her. "Mycroft!" She trotted down to catch him at the same time he opened the booth's door. She put a hand on top of his, the one holding the handle. "Do we really have to go in there?"

"We have been diplomatic and that almost costs your live and civilian's lives. The Government is done playing along. They have to understand their place in the bigger scheme of things."

He gestured her to get inside. She stood in front of the telephone, while he entered after her, pressing her a bit farther in and closing the door. She could feel his hands position themselves on top of the wooden umbrella, waiting, brushing her back. She swallowed, and with slightly trembling hands pressed 62442. As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool female voice sounded inside the telephone box.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Mycroft S. Holmes from the Government of Her Majesty the Queen and Hermione J. Granger, Special Agent from the MI7. We are seeing the Auror in Chief. "

"Thank you," said the cool female voice. "Visitors, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes. Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

Mycroft scoffed at this and took their badges, dropping them into his pocket. Not that they would need it, they stood out like a sore thumb, him with his fancy muggle clothes and she covered in red and white brick dust, with a bloodied face. She would be surprised if they let them go through security without arresting them. The box shuddered and started sinking into the ground, the pavement starting to obscure the glass windows. Painfully slow, the booth moved its way down the earth, taking a good minute until the light started illuminating the box again.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," said the woman's voice.

The door sprang open and Mycroft cleared his throat, prompting Hermione to go out. Once they both touched the floor in the Atrium, the box disappeared into the ceiling, back to its original position, leaving them in the middle of a crowd that was doing its best to avoid them. Hermione, being in her trainers and with her 5'5 feet, could barely see anything. Mycroft put a hand on her shoulder and stirred her to the lifts, catching one that was going up, pushing the number "2" in the panel. She tried to avoid the curious eyes and the murmuring, although it was obvious to everyone on the lift was talking about them. Besides her, Mycroft wore an unaltered expression on his face, as if this situation was boring him to no end. He was, nevertheless, gazing discretely to a man carrying a cage, with smoke coming out of the small hole on top. The mechanical voice was announcing the levels was the only thing that could be heard above the light talking, and they were little by little being left alone.

"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."

She had never been in the Auror headquarters before, and neither had Mycroft. The environment was completely different to the pristine halls they were used to. The cubicles behind the oak doors they crossed seemed to have been taken out of a seventies' journalism film, cluttered with yellowish folders and teacups. Hermione reckoned, the place looked messier because of the memos that were zooming in and out of cubicles like miniature rockets. A lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read "Auror headquarters". They passed the door and then everything was chaos. People running from one place to another, interdepartmental memos flying, everyone talking at the same time, to the point that none paid attention to them. She could see Harry at the entrance of his office, in a very heated argument with Sirius while Kingsley was listening to them. Mycroft rolled his eyes, she knew how much he hated disorganization. She also did, especially when this level of incompetence had been about to cost her life. She straightened up beside Mycroft, and made sure her plaque could be seen resting on her hip, while he took the disguised gun out of his umbrella, aimed it at the ceiling and fired. Everyone stood still and she saw how everyone had turned to them started looking at them. Without a care in the world, Mycroft started walking towards them, Hermione trailing behind, while the people retreated to the sides. He came to Harry and stood in front of him. It was kind of impressive how Mycroft could use his towering 6'1 for intimidation.

"I believe we have business to discuss, Chief."

He did not wait to be invited into the office, as he was already bargaining in, followed by Hermione and Sirius. She settled herself in one of the chairs while Sirius stated working his wand on her face, his lips pressed into a thin line. She put her hand in his hand, stilling him. She could almost swear she felt his magic bubbling beneath her fingers. He managed a grin before starting healing her cuts, while the rest of the main Aurors and the Minister entered the room. Mycroft had chosen the commanding position in the room, standing at the front of the desk, with one hand on his umbrella and the other inside his pocket. When the last auror, someone Hermione did not recognize, had closed the door, no one talked immediately. It was basic psychological technique, Hermione thought. Letting the target feel the pressure, the feeling of what's about to come eating them away.

"Care to explain?"

"We don´t understand what happened." Harry was driving his hand through his hair, messing it more than usual. "We were sure they had laid down."

"No shop was contacted for any of the lists of ingredients for that potion." Malfoy had some reports in his hands, and was rereading them. "We sent some of our agents to the black market, to everywhere they could have possibly go. No new potion batches were sold. We do not understand."

"Obviously"

"They were getting ready for striking again. Probably look for new channels of delivery."

Mycroft nodded to Hermione, agreeing with her.

"The how and the why it is not what's important, now," Sirius said. "This has happened and now we need to face the consequences."

"But we do need to address the why Sirius" Mycroft turned to Harry and Kingsley. "And here is why. You don't have the resources. You don't have the training and more importantly, you don't have the mindset. We do not have time to babysit every time you make a mistake. You wanted more competences because you felt like you should be more in control. We gave it to you. But trying to oversee if you do fine is way more work than do it ourselves. We had to deploy agents that were on other missions."

"It is unfair you put this on us" Ron had come forward, directly confronting Mycroft. "We all make mistakes. You have surely put civilians in danger before. We are not the only ones."

"We are good, we are war survivors, and we have led successful investigations." Said Harry "We defeated a dictator in the making. You cannot come in here and berate us as if we were children."

"So did we!" Mycroft gave a strong hit on the floor with his umbrella, his voice becoming harder, angrier. "And as opposition to yours, the one we muggles defeated wanted to control the whole Europe. And ever since then, we have frustrated coups d'état, we have frustrated civil wars and terrorist attacks that would shake this nation to its core. Believe it or not, Mr. Potter, the Muggle world faces bigger threats than your Lord Voldemort, every day, invisible threats. And do you know why you, or anyone for that matter, have no idea of this? Because of people like us, put our lives on the line for those threats to remain silent. You don't get to give me lessons of anti-terrorism because your little population has no idea how the real world works. Therefore, stop basking in old glories, this is the here and now, and you failed. "Mycroft look at them. "You are released from any magic operation that delves in the muggle world and it would be MI7 competence. You can complain all you want. You are still British, you still work under Her Majesty and the Government, and neither of them is happy. Be thankful you don't have the complete army sweeping this place. "He turned to Sirius. "From now on, due to your post of liaison, you will be the ultimate responsible for any of the misdeeds that happen around here and that potentially put in danger any of our operatives. If your family ties to Chief Potter are going to be an impediment, please say so now so we don't lose time."

"You know me, Mycroft. If you put me in charge, I'll do whatever is necessary to uphold the standards."

"Luckily for you, I know your work ethic is the same as Hermione's. But I will not tolerate any more mistakes. Any foot out of the line and I would have no problem in auditor you."

"Understood"

"Good" He looked at Hermione, who had been paying attention to the conversation. He then addressed the Minister. "You really should thank Agent Black. She had taken down all the suspects before we arrived and saved you from a monumental downfall. Were any of the civilians present have suffered any damaged the responsibility would be on you." Mycroft opened the door without further ado, and she went after him after kissing Sirius good-bye. The travel back to the surface and to Baker street was silent, each one because of their own reasons. Mycroft, because he was still reeling from the argument. Her, because she had something else to face back home.

* * *

Hermione had started feeling the consequences of today's events as soon as she had got out of the car in front of her house. Taking each one of the steps had been a slow affair, and she was not sure if it was because of the pain or because who was waiting for her. She stood in the small landing, observing John who was in his chair, head resting on the back.

Hey, John... "He lifted his head and she gave a lazy smile while opening her arms and pointing at herself. "This is it, John. This is who I am. I have no more layers, no more secrets. Me being a witch is the only thing left to me that you did not know."

He did not say a word. He was looking at her, and to Hermione's relief, there was no anger or fear in those. He was hurt, for sure, but he did not hate her, and that was at least something.

"It is a very important part to leave out. It is what you are."

"Being a witch does not define me, and I appreciate if you did not assume it does. "That came out more forcefully that she had intended. She cleared her throat. "Sorry. It's just… I am a witch, but I am way more than that. "

"Mary... She told me bits and pieces. About what happened to you."

"How much do you know already?"

"She said something about a war, about a nutjob that wanted to control all of you or something of sorts."

Hermione chuckled. "Yeah, you could say so. It is true, we went through a war. We weren't…I wasn't the same after that. I decided that being a witch, a broken, war heroine, was not enough for me."

"You must've been what? 16, 17?

"Yeah... We were child soldiers, John. I spend my formative years learning how to stay alive instead of snogging boys and getting drunk. My whole personality developed around fighting, and fear. When all ended, that was all I knew how to do. My PTSD went as far as being rooted in my very soul. I had no idea what to do with the person I had become."

John nodded and seemed to fall back into his thoughts.

"How does Mary know?"

"By accident. We were in a very similar situation a few years back, we weren't even good friends back then. But she saw and she did not care, and she kept my secret. She only asks for hungover potions every now and then."

John got up and started pacing the room. Hermione followed him, waiting for him to continue. He stood in front of her.

"Look, I am not going to pretend this is not weird as fuck and that I still think I am going to get up and everything is going to be a dream, but…Can I see?"

"I beg you pardon?"

"Something, anything... Whatever you can do so I know I am not crazy, and that this is really happening and you are a …"

"Witch, John. Look closely."

She took her wand out, letting her head get filled with memories. She was seeing her parents, clad in plaid patterned pyjamas, her mother holding a warm cup of chocolate while her father recorded her expression with a camera. On the floor, among pieces of gift paper, was a 6 years old Hermione, holding a Goofy plush toy and 3 tickets to Disneyland...

"Expectro patronum"

A silver otter came out of the tip of her wand, illuminating the room, and playfully scurried between John's legs, and step on his chair, only to fade into a silvered fog and disappear.

"What was that? An otter? What does it do?"

And the smile playing on his lips, like the one she had the first time she saw magic told her that everything was going to be fine. He could have been terrified of her, and that was had been eating her away ever. But he was in awe of the beauty of magic, not scared.

"I'll tell you when you are older."

* * *

Yes, this was quick! The last two chapters were written almost simultaneously as I changed somethings back and forth. So, I hope two chapters in less than a week will get you through to the next chapter.

Next chapter is..."The Empty Hearse". Well, more likely, "The empty hearse-I". The next is, therefore, the first canonical chapter. I've calculated that each episode will span for 3 chapters, as they are very very long episodes. Not everything that happened in the TV series would be explained or re-written though, as I also need to make space for Hermione in the story. I would probably put some resume like paragraphs here and there, but things will be slightly different. "The sign of Three" and "His last vow" are already written (you can expect some smut in TSoT), but THE still needs some work.

See you soon! As always, feel free to let me know what you think, either by review or PM.


	10. The Empty Hearse-Act I

**Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

By the way, my deepest thanks to all of you that reviewed, favourited or followed the story. It really warms my heart to see how many of you seem to like what I write. I promise I will continue working on this amazing story.

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 10: "The empty hearse, Act I"**

Hermione was sitting on the balcony outside Sirius' flat, a thick wool blanket wrapped around her, and a glass of wine dangling from her hands. The soft compasses of Celestina Warbeck's latest hit were muffled by the sound of people chattering, people, she had no interest in talking to. Among which included a few members of the Weasley family, Draco Malfoy and her gorgeous trophy wife and the Minister, Kingsley. Ever since Mycroft's takeover of DMLE's functions, the relationships between the muggle and the magical folk have been difficult, putting it mildly. And the situation had caught Sirius in the middle. After several rocky months where the hostility levels had escalated dramatically, Sirius had decided to throw a party in his flat for his birthday, trying to bridge gaps between both parts of his life. Although she had grudgingly agreed to come, she had mostly kept to herself, and no one had tried to engage in a conversation. She had not even intervened when Sirius had explained to the group the different appliances and art decorations he had been gathering for the past years, taking a sip for every stupid comment she heard. After she had finished her fourth glass of wine following this game of hers, she had decided to retreat to the outside for a smoke and some peace. If only Mycroft would not have been so uptight, she thought, she could have had some company. It was probably for the best, anyway. He would have done a very Holmes observation and, eventually, would have pissed someone. If they understood what he was referring to, of course.

The distant peeps from a clock struck seven. She sighed and looked at the horizon, to where she knew Mary lived. If her calculations were correct, John would be picking up her in half an hour or so, and a cab would take them to the restaurant. They would dine and drink expensive Champaign, and after that, John would take the most important step of his life.

 _Flashback_

 _Hermione was with her back to the door, her earphones playing her favourite The Beatles mix while preparing a batch of fluffy pancakes. Ever since John had moved in with Mary a couple of months back, they would meet for breakfast every Thursday, before he would go to the surgery. She was flipping the last pancake, humming, when she felt a touch on her shoulder. Hermione let the spatula fell on the countertop while ripping her earphones and turning. John was smiling, two take away coffees already on the table. She threw him the cloth she had hanging in her trousers while he laughed._

 _"Jesus John, I could have killed you."_

 _"_ _How? With a spatula? Would you blow flour on me?"_

 _Hermione threw him a deathly glare while grabbing her coffee, which only made him laugh more. John, meanwhile, had taken out his coat and had on his hands a carefully wrapped package, which she opened to find a beautiful pair of silver earring with onyx stones._

 _"_ _Happy Birthday"_

 _"_ _Thank you, John! They are gorgeous, I'll wear them tomorrow"_

 _"You were not supposed to know!"_

 _Hermione smiled on her cup. "I know Mary better than anyone, and you can't keep a secret for dear life, John." She looked at him, appreciating the barely there change in his demeanour. It was very faint, but it was there, something in the sound of his laugh, in his whole being was not as it had been before. "You look different"_

 _"_ _I got a call from Greg last week. Apparently, Sherlock is about to be cleared of all charges. "_

 _"Mhmm, Mycroft commented something about that. The secret service and Greg, actually, have been working really hard for it. It was really difficult to get the bottom of it, there were a lot of side-tracks and false clues. Moriarty was good."_

 _"I can imagine."_

 _They chew in silence for some minutes, before Hermione dared to talk again._

 _"So, how does that make you feel?"_

 _He folded his hands, resting his forearms on the edge. He cleared his throat, and meet her eyes. "I know it is stupid, but now I think I can...breathe. I can say I knew him and that he was good and extraordinary. Like if the world is going to know him as I did, and that is a relive. I feel like I can continue with my life without holding back."_

 _"That's brilliant, John."_

 _"_ _That's why I am going to propose to Mary."_

 _Hermione's coffee went through the wrong pipe making her coughs violently._

 _"_ _That you are going to what?"_

 _"_ _Propose. I know," he said before she could say anything" It is a big step. But I love her, she likes me for the person I am, she loved me when I was broken and when I wasn't. And it had never been this way with anyone. She gives my life an edge that I love and miss. She is not the boring, typical woman I had expected to settle with."_

 _Hermione snicker at this. If only he knew how right he was. "I am happy for you both. When are you going to ask?"_

 _"Well, I was thinking maybe around the beginning of November? You know, our anniversary. Do you think it is very cliché?"_

 _"A tad, but Mary wouldn´t mind, I assure you" She then remember" Let me do something. My father was planning on having just the two of us having dinner in The Landmark in Marylebone on the 3rd, but finally, he decided to throw a dinner at his house. I can ask him to change the reservations for you."_

 _"It is too much, and that place is expensive."_

 _"Nonsense John. My two best friends are getting married, I am going to make sure the night is unforgettable. Take it as my engagement gift."_

 _"Actually, you could do something else…"_

 _"I was already going to go with you for the ring, John. I've seen your taste in jewellery."_

 _"Oi! You liked the earrings"_

 _"Please, this has Mary's name all over the place. Luckily for you, I know her as well as she knows me. Although, you know what? I think she will be very happy if you get rid of that thing over your mouth that you call a moustache."_

 _"She likes it!"_

 _"No one likes it, John!"_

She was almost hearing Mary's voice inside her head. She knew she would be the first person she would call to tell. She would ramble about how she could have possibly missed it, and how on Earth John was able to not to give it away, being as bad as he was on keeping secrets. Her phone rang, taking her out of her thoughts. She reached for it, the screen illuminating with the "Mike" ID caller. If she remembered correctly, Mycroft should have been in a case somewhere in Serbia. Not that he would have told her then: Anthea was the one to tell her about the secret diplomatic mission that had Mycroft travelling constantly. That was an anomaly in itself: Mycroft hated field work. The only possible explanation was that the case was delicate enough as to deal with it himself. She slid her finger over the green button and put it on speaker, reclining on the seat.

"Hermione Black, Merlot drinker, and social outcast. What can I help you with this lovely night, Mr Holmes?"

"I require your assistance." His voice, while uninterestingly jovial – almost disturbingly so for Mycroft- had an edge of urgency that met the order he had given her. Almost like a soldier, she got up leaving the blanket on the chair and went inside, still far away from the noise.

"You know it is Sirius' birthday Mycroft. Is it really urgent?"

"A car will be at Sirius' door in-" Blatantly ignoring her, he paused, probably checking his pocket watch "-approximately five minutes. It will take you here. And before you start your usual questionnaire, I am not going to discuss this over the phone. 4 minutes, Hermione" With this, he hung up, leaving Hermione confused. With her phone clutched in her hand, not even bothering by the patronizing looks of the women around her due to her very much muggle gown and her frenzied pace around the house, went from room to room looking for the host. She finally found him in the kitchen, deep in conversation with the main team of the Auror department. The clack of her heels against the wooden floors made them go quiet, turning to her.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, Sirius."

"Is something the matter darling?"

"Well..." She looked at the men while her phone beeped, signalling for the arrival of her car. "Mycroft called me, and he has sent a car for me."

"Why? Do you want me to come?"

"I have no idea why he needs me but he does. And don't worry, stay, have fun, get drunk" She looked sideways to their company. "Or whatever wizards do when they have a get-together."

"I hope this urgent meeting has nothing to do with our competences again, Miss Granger."

"No, Minister is it not about your incompetence, but again, we do have the control now, so nothing to be incompetent about." She gave them a smirk that would have probably made Malfoy proud and came closer to kiss Sirius on the cheek "Sorry. Happy Birthday Dad"

"Thank you, love. Keep me updated."

"Sure. I'll call you tomorrow." She turned around and watch the other men. She gave them the fakest smile she could muster and a mock bow of her head. "Gentlemen"

As Mycroft promised, a black car with tinted windows was waiting for her when she made her way into the night. She climbed into the backseat and let her head rest on the seat, closing her eyes. In her mind, she could see the streets they were travelling, and she frowned at a particular turn to the right. Looking through the window, she saw the Vauxhall bridge ahead. She thought they were going to Mycroft's or his Whitehall office, but apparently, they were going to his very private MI6 office, place she had never been to in all her time as an agent. This turn of events left her wary of what he might want to talk with her. Not even ten minutes after, the car stopped in an alleyway. It had started to rain, and the chauffeur had gone to her door to offer her an umbrella for the short distance between the car and the door, barely a couple of meters away. The man knocked three times the metal door, and it opened letting her inside. The man at the other side, that looked like - and probably was - a professional wrestler led her to a long hallway. It was extremely cold, and she wishes she would have taken something thicker than the cloak she was wearing.

"Agent Black, Mr Holmes is waiting. Last door."

She made it through the hallway with the sound of her footsteps as the only company, reaching the hard metal door and opening it without asking for permission. The room, only lighted by a couple of lamps that showed the grey colour of the concrete, was sparsely decorated. The main object in the room was the table behind which Mycroft was seated. She closed the door behind her and hanged the cloak.

"Where are your manners?"

"You were expecting me, Mycroft. Please, don't be you." She sat down and kick off her heels, her soles resting on the hard, cold floor. "Why am I here, anyway? What is so important that cannot be said on the phone?"

"Well, you know delicate problems require delicate means of communication"

She nodded non-concomitantly, waiting for him to continue. He took a deep breath, and got up, circling the table gently tapping the surface. She observed him. Strangely for him, Mycroft was not wearing his jacket, his golden sleeve garters shinning under the decadent light. He leaned on the front of his desk, looking at her, his hands grabbing the edge of the table.

"I know you have been asking around" He maintained the eye contact, and Hermione thought his stare was as blinding as a lamp in a questioning room.

"The empty hearse? That's what you are asking me, why I have been paying attention to a crazy man's theories."

"But you did not think they were crazy. You thought they meant something."

"Well, they did seem more than what they meant. And I remembered we have been having more cases from the Balkans."

"And still, you did not ask me. You didn't tell John either."

"John did not need to know. Nor did I need to confront you, because you would've told me if that were the case, wouldn't you, Mycroft?"

He sighed and paced around the office, coming to a halt in front of the mirror, is hand intertwined at the small of his back. She turned around in the chair and waited for him to continue. When he did so, he did not look at her.

"I am afraid haven't been honest with you, Hermione. I know honesty was everything you've always asked me, but this was a matter of maximum security."

Her stomach made a funny turn, her blood freezing inside her veins. Could it be? Could Mary have been right all this time? Crossing her legs, she rested on the back of the seat, seemingly uninterested, folding her hand on her lap.

"A part of me is surprised you did not catch on before. Although I've been said I am a great actor, and I did do my best to keep you on the sidelines."

Hermione's mind was completely blank, like a blackout. She could not decide if she was more disappointed, angry or confused. Meanwhile, Mycroft had gone to the corner of the room and had opened and small fingerprint reader. He pushed it, and the clicking sound of security hinges filled the room, and a disguised door opened in the stone wall.

"As they said when you were younger, 10 points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger."

In the threshold, lurking in the shadows, a familiar silhouette that should be five feet under was waiting. She could distinguish the curly hair, the long hands, the particular sauntering in his step of an overconfident person that she had already seen, in a tv, over a year ago. When he entered in the room finally, wearing the tailored trousers from the same Savile Row shop as his brother and a perfectly fitted shirt, the light illuminating his sea-like eyes, she thought he was probably the most attractive man she had ever seen. But when said man looked at her, it hit her. She became painfully aware of what this, what _him_ , meant. She closed her eyes and stood up, feeling the anger boiling inside her veins, and her magic making the light flicker. She took a few deep breaths, and approached Mycroft, painfully aware of the height difference with both men without her shoes.

"So, it was true then? This Anderson wasn't crazy, he was a bloody genius."

Sherlock chuckled. His laugh was just like she remembered his voice to be: deep like velvet, with a hint of sarcasm.

"I doubt anyone had ever dabbed Anderson as a genius"

Completely ignoring him, but feeling his eyes on her, Hermione took a step towards Mycroft, who had not even the decency to look even a tiny bit ashamed.

"I asked you, Mycroft. I asked you, and you looked me in the eye and told me there was nothing you were hiding from me."

"I've told you. This was top secret. We needed to end Moriarty once and for all." He grabbed her gently but firmly by the elbow. "If it's any consolation, few people knew."

"No need for it. Everything in plain as day. Your parents were not at the funeral. Molly, I guess, she knew. She did your autopsy and she was hell bent to led us stray from Anderson's blog. And whoever you need to did that stunt of fall you did."

Sherlock, who had been watching the very strange display of human contact of his brother, gave a hum of acknowledgement.

"They were part of the plan. You were not."

"I am an agent, your best agent, Mycroft. I could have been part of the plan."

"You would have told John."

"OF COURSE I WOULD!" Hermione freed herself and put some steps between them. "In fact, why didn't you? Or you, Sherlock?"

"He couldn't know. He would have thrown off the plan."

Hermione wanted to retaliate but she also knew there was some sense in that. John, honest to a fault, was a miserable actor. Still, he deserved to know. He had lost so much time grieving that it seemed unfair.

"Do you have an idea about the mess you left behind? Jesus, do you have any idea of what John has been through? "

"How do you know about John?" Sherlock's voice and demeanour had changed. He was now commanding, authoritarian and a bit arrogant, and inevitably, sent a shiver down her spine. He locked his greyish blue eyes with her and even her breath hitched a bit. She should be angry, not all hot and bothered by only a voice and a pair of pretty eyes.

"Does it matter?"

He smirked "Oh, I see. You are his sitter, aren't you?"

"I thought you might appreciate, Sherlock. People do strange things when they lose someone they care about. A little thank you will suffice."

"I have nothing to thank you for, he wasn't in danger."

The door opened and Anthea came with a pot of steaming tea and three cups. Mycroft sat again in his chair and gestured them to do the same. And while she did, Sherlock stood up. Childish, she thought.

"Now we are going to talk as adults and decide what are we going to do."

"Obviously, tell John tomorrow. I can do it. I also need to explain to him that I had nothing to do with all of this."

"Why tomorrow? I can go today and surprise him."

"Well, you might now be welcomed tonight." He could be a walking sex add, but she doubted she could be with him more than 10 minutes with him without killing him "He is out for dinner."

"I'll talk to him when he is back to Baker Street then."

Mycroft frowned "Baker Street? He isn't there anymore. Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

Sherlock seemed surprised and then scoffed at that. "What life? I've been away. Anyway, I'll go where he is then."

Hermione gave an exasperated huff. She had worked with Mycroft for years, she had briefly worked for politicians…She had met Draco Malfoy when he was a brat. And still, Sherlock Holmes was possibly the most self-centred person she had met. "He is out, I told you"

"Another of his…girlfriends?"

"It is none of your business"

"Nothing important than"

Hermione could not believe his nerve. What John, patient, willing, kind man, saw in him, she failed to see. "You know what? Do whatever you want to do, as you have been doing for the past years. After all, I feel we are just pawns in whatever game you two are playing." She did not wait for any of them to say anything before she was out of the room, cloak in hand, walking to the car.

In the room, however, the conversation was far from done. Sherlock was in front of the mirror, fixing his shirt, his mind still focused on the small, angry woman that apparently had a very… interesting, relationship with his brother.

"You found yourself a John."

"She is no John, Sherlock." Mycroft stood next to him, a smirk playing on his lips. "Her academic and mental capabilities surpass by far anything John might have. And you saw her, she knew, she _observed_."

"Still not like us."

"You have no idea how accurate that is"

Sherlock looked at him. "I told you years ago about people like her. People with special...Abilities."

"She is one of those, then."

"Mm. Why little brother, interested?"

Instead of the usual retort, Sherlock went silence

"Oh my, have we found your Achilles heel?"

"Don't be daft. She is self-righteous, intransigent and stubborn."

"Ahh, the irony."

Sherlock ignored it. Right now, he wanted to breathe London again, and find John to end all this pantomime. Everything, especially whatever Hermione Granger could mean and could be, was out of the question.

* * *

After erasing all the makeup and trying to drown her anger with a bubble bath, Hermione had put on the comfiest clothes and had poured herself a hot cup of tea. Barely settled with a book on her lap, her phone beeped on the table next to the black leather chair. A message from Mary in her inbox. With a smile, she thought that maybe she was busy with other not suitable for children activities, and was probably telling her they would talk tomorrow. Instead, she found a short and cryptic text: 'Beat up street dog coming up'. Not even a minute after she heard the front door creaking followed by heavy footsteps climbing up the stairs. She looked up at her phone just to see the bloody face of Sherlock Holmes appear, who in exchange threw a dirty look at her.

"That's my chair"

Hermione, typing her answer to Mary - "I have to stop sheltering astrays"-, did not even bother to look to him "Too demanding for a new tenant, isn't it?

Sherlock did not respond and sat in John's armchair, moving around trying to find a comfortable spot, his legs too long for a seat so close to the floor.

"So, what happened? Missus not 'appy to see ya?" She said in her best cockney accent. Hermione looked at him, that was still pressing a paper towel to his nose, and closing his eyes briefly in admission. She stood up and went to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. When she came back, Sherlock has switched seats and was smugly looking at her. She let out a sigh and came closer, showing the sanitary alcohol. Taking the towel away and started cleaning the blood with a warm cloth, she assessed the nose. "Mycroft did warn you. But Holmes' apparently love big appearances. I'll have to ask Margaret and Siger when they are in town"

She saw him frown, hissing in pain. "How do you know my parents?"

"Stay still" She put dab with the cotton on the cut he had on the right side of his nose, earning a twitch "Who do you think takes your parents to places when Mycroft is oh so busy meddling with other countries policies? Lovely people really, I wonder how Mycroft and you are even genetically possible"

She continued in silence, revelling in the long eyelashes that darkened his sharp cheekbones.

"Mycroft told me about you. About your... _thing_ "

"My magic, you mean. Maybe I'll show you if you behave."She smiled, removing the last stains of blood." Good as new. I am going to bed, this has been a really really long day. And I expect a very intense conversation with John tomorrow. Night Sherlock" She started walking to her room when she heard him speaking

"Where are you going?"

"To my room. You know, witches sleep on a bed, not in coffins as vampires."

"That's my room."

"Mmmm no it isn't." She started walking again when she heard him calling after her "Where I am supposed to sleep?"

"Not my problem!" She closed the door, hearing how he did everything with exaggerated noise, the childish man he was. She took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult.

* * *

And this is it! The first part of "The Empty Hearse". Soon you'll have the second part. Please, do not hesitate to contact me if you hate it, love it, every criticism is welcomed!

All the transcripts have been extracted from the work of Ariane DeVere who did an amazing job recollecting them. The link to them is in my profile.

There are approximately 7 chapters left of the story. Well, this is half true. I do intend to get this story up to Season 4, but I need to think about what I am going to do with the storyline. I have a pretty good idea of what I want to do with Eurus, but my big debate is with Mary.

Please, give me your thoughts about my Sherlock. I kind of managed Mycroft and John, but Sherlock is new to me.

NOTE: Sherlock's mum was called Violet because of something I read online, but upon seen His Las Vow, I saw that her book had the initials "M. ", so I had to change the name.


	11. The Empty Hearse-Act II

**Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

By the way, my deepest thanks to all of you that reviewed, favourited or followed the story. It really warms my heart to see how many of you seem to like what I write. I promise I will continue working on this amazing story.

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 11:** **"The empty hearse, Act II"**

When Hermione woke up next morning, she thought she had had the strangest dream of her life. Lying in bed, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, reaching for her phone. It was ten in the morning, and she already had five missing calls from John and three from Mary. She sighed. It had not been a dream then. Sherlock was alive and Mycroft had lied to her. Getting up, she re-dialled John. He picked up immediately, probably waiting for her call. Before she could say anything, John was already talking.

"Did you know it?"

"Ten minutes ago, I thought I had dreamt it. No, John, I didn't know it." The silence on the other side told was doubtful. John had every right to not to believe her. "I am serious, John. I am as shocked as you are and really pissed. Probably not at the same Holmes as you."

John did not answer immediately, but she did not interrupt him. Despite Sherlock's bloody nose from yesterday, John was being quite reasonable.

"Why didn't Mycroft tell you"

"Because he correctly guessed I would have told you eventually. You deserved to know." John muttered a thank you, sighing. "So, what now, John?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to come around or not?"

"We'll see."

Hermione put the phone in speaker while she threw on her dressing gown.

"Mary told me he actually interrupted you last night."

"That he did, the cock."

"Good punch, though."

John laughed and she joined him. She felt relieved now.

"How do you live with him without punching him every time he talks?"

"Good question. I hope you are a patient woman." John covered the speaker because she heard muffled noises. "Listen, I have to go, Mary just told me there is a new patient with an undescended testicle."

"Uhg, gross John."

She hanged the call and went to the door when she heard voices in the living room. Very distinctive voices. Opening the door, she saw Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, throwing each other what looked like a woollen hat, not paying attention to her. She came to them and took one of the cups of tea on the table when she noticed the massive case board that now decorated the wall.

"I've written a blog about the different fibres"

"I am sure there is a crying need for that" She pointed at the map "What is this?"

"That's Sherlock's homework." "None of your business"

Hermione turned around to the men, that had talked at the same time. Mycroft, wearing his favourite tweed suit, looked almost amused in the face of Sherlock's irritation of both being interrupted and being mocked at. She turned to kitchen simulating exasperation, but she was actually having a very difficult time concentrating in something else rather than the button of Sherlock´s shirt that strained against his chest, barely covered by the dressing gown. She sat down at the kitchen table, pouring a fresh coffee with the arguing of the siblings as background noise.

"Yes. Back to work if you don't mind. Hermione, a word."

She turned her head to Mycroft. She was half tempted to ignore him, but she gave in and followed him to the landing. He closed the door after them, although she was pretty sure Sherlock would probably be listening on the other side. She stood in front of him, her arms crossed, waiting for him to talk.

"I am sorry."

She nodded slowly. She could not control the sceptical pursing of her lips, her eyebrows shooting up incredulously.

"Nice, Mycroft. No, seriously, I feel better now."

"Keep your ironies, would you?" He moved on the spot, both hands now on the handle of his umbrella. "You are my best agent and because you are I put you where I thought you'd be best."

"You really don't see it do you?" Her voice was hard and louder than it had been before "This is not about what I had to do, Mycroft. This is about you not telling me something so critical." She threw her arms in the air, exasperation seeping through her words. "Not only that! You let that stupid club to become famous! It was me who connected the dots, but what if someone else had?"

"They did" He looked at her. "That's why I had to go to the Balkans myself."

Hermione crossed her arms again, slightly back away from him.

"Listen, the whole situation came from up high. Moriarty's network was something that had to be dealt with and Sherlock was the weapon to do it. "

"Why is he here now then?"

"The network has been dismantled and the MI6 wanted Sherlock in the Thompson's case."

"The terrorist attack?"

"Precisely. They requested him, but that doesn't mean I don't need you to keep your eyes opened. Especially now, that Sherlock is here. He has the singular ability to attract all sorts of ...interesting, people."

"Cheers. From John's nanny to your brother's nanny. I've got a promotion!"

Mycroft came closer to her and put a hand on her crossed arms. "Everything is out in the open now. Ever since this moment, you will have normal missions as you did before. You are back on the field. I am just asking for some surveillance."

She stood there, not going away from his touch but neither acknowledging it. He took a step back, sighing slightly. "We sometimes have to make hard decisions for the greater good. I hope you can forgive me."

"I have forgiven you Mycroft. But I won't forget."

"I wasn't expecting so."

She nodded to him and opened the kitchen door, immediately entering the bathroom. After a needed hot shower, she had got dressed and had decided to do some shopping. She was putting on her coat, about to step down to the stairs when Sherlock came into her path, intently looking at her.

"Yes?"

"Hum… would you like to… Solve crimes?"

She was sure she must have misheard "What?"

"I have clients. I tried Molly, but she said that it maybe was a bit not good."

"I love being the second plate."

"Third, I tried Lestrade."

"You know Greg is not at your beck and call, don't you?"

"Who?

She massaged her temples. "What do you want Sherlock? A John?"

"You are a secret agent, so I am hoping for an improved version."

For reasons she could not understand yet, she agreed. Well, she could, as the alternative was a run down to Tesco at rush hour. She sat down on John's chair, and although she saw how Sherlock momentarily frowned, she just flashed him a defiant smile. Sherlock was so used to everyone giving in to his desires that he was probably a little bit taken aback by her. Two could play this game.

By the end of the day, they had established a routine around each other. They had received all sorts of clients, and while Sherlock deduced them, she gave personal inputs that he seemed to appreciate. Their method had worked so well that for a moment, in a dingy basement with a skeleton and them throwing facts at each other, it had felt like flirting.

The last case of the day, however, was the one that spiked Sherlock's attention. Howard, the owner of the wool hat, had shown them the strange disappearance of a man inside a tube car between two adjacent stations. Sherlock's brain had kicked into working mode and had started talking, his eyes flickering back and forth in the screen. In that moment, she understood John a bit better. The boring cases, the easy stuff, was just a training. Seeing him like this was what John had got addicted to, and she might easily do so. She felt the rush someone must have felt seeing Da Vinci painting or Bach playing: almost like witness a masterpiece. His mind was a wind whirl, completely different to what she had seen in Mycroft. Where Mycroft's wit held the precision of the scalpel, his was a tornado, sweeping through everyone that came through his path.

Completely immersed in his thoughts, he had continued talking when they had left the flat, going down the stairs.

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park." He looked at Hermione, who was tapping on her phone. "I'm going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, maps. I can make a few calls." She reached the landing, pocketing her phone. "By the way, about the man."

"What about him?"

"You do know him. Everyone that has lived in England for the past two years knows him. He is Augustus Moran, Peer of the realm. Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment. "

"I don't do politics. I must have seen him somewhere else."

"You have him on your map, he is one of your rats. I don't know why, but you do."

Sherlock frowned and walked past her while muttering to himself. "Mm…Fancy some chips?"

"What?"

"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?"

"No – I helped him put up some shelves."

Hermione laughed, a smile staying on her lips, mirroring his. "Is this a peace offering?"

Sherlock stood outside the complex, the wind messing with his hair, his cheeks barely visible over the collar of his coat, but with tell-tale creases of a smile. His eyes, however, had the same expression his brother had when he met her the first time. She had been evaluated, she knew that, and apparently, she had passed. "You might be...useful, in the long run."

"I'll take that as a compliment. But I should report back to your brother. He wants to send me to deal with the Magical Congress of the United States of America and I am ready to trade something so I don't have to do it. I might even offer to spy on you."

He smirked at her "I'd like to see you try."

She smiled and went past him, giving him a light squeeze in the arm above the elbow. "It was fun, Sherlock. See you at home."

That night, however, when a Sherlock smelling like a roasted chicken had arrived at Baker Street, he had ignored Hermione's questions and had locked himself in the bathroom. She must have known that whatever this morning was about was not going to last.

* * *

"He's always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?"

"'Fraid so."

Sherlock, sitting in his chair, glared towards the kitchen, where Hermione was preparing a tray of tea. She had what Sherlock, in less than forty-eight hours, had already deemed her 'annoying know-it-all' smile. In all fairness, Hermione thought, it was pretty entertaining seeing him closing his eyes, drumming his fingers against the leather, probably trying to drown the innocent babbling from his parents. She came to the front room, leaving the tray on the coffee table.

"Thank you, darling. I hope Sherly is not giving you too much trouble."

"Not at all, Margaret." She straightened herself and looked over at Sherlock, cocking her eyebrow, clearly stating to him that the nickname will be kept on her hard drive for later use "Sherly is being quite a gentleman."

Sherlock rose quickly to his feet, buttoning his jacket as he walked towards the sofa.

"So, did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?" He stepped onto the coffee table and then onto the sofa between his parents, flicking through the papers on the wall. Hermione saw how Margaret merely leaned to the side nonchalantly, while his father exchanged with her an exasperated look. Hermione swears, Siger was the only sane one in that family.

"Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see, er, St Paul's, the Tower ... but they weren't letting anyone into Parliament."

"Yes, there is a big debate tonight." Sherlock looked at his mum and then at her, a question in his expression. "Anti-terrorism bill. One of the few things that can save the Government, apparently."

The living room door opened without notice, and John appeared on the threshold. Sherlock looked round in surprise.

"John!"

"Sorry – you're busy."

Sherlock climbed down the sofa and reached down to pull Margaret to her feet while speaking to John: "No-no-no, they were just leaving."

"Oh, were we?"

"Yes."

"No, no, if you've got a case ..."

"No, not a case, no-no-no. Go. 'Bye."

Hermione stood up and pried Margaret away from her son's grip while giving her her purse. "Sherlock!"

"Don't worry pet." She reached to give her a peck on the cheek. "We're here 'til Saturday, remember."

Sherlock stood beside Hermione, pushing all three of them onto the landing. Hermione shot him a glare and he swiftly removed his hand from her back but continued to push his parents out. He tried to close the door but something stooped him from doing so. Hermione turned to John and offered him a cup of tea, still fuming, while Sherlock continued talking after he finally managed to close the door.

"Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine. Clients?"

"His parents."

"His parents?"

"His and Mycroft's parents." John's expression was that of a person who has received a very shocking information. "I know, my thoughts exactly."

"Your parents?"

"In town for a few days. Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of "Les Mis." Tried to talk me into doing it."

"Well ...That is not what I ... I-I mean they're just ... so"

"...ordinary."

"It's a cross I have to bear." John chuckled, then slowly took a few steps across the room before turning back.

"Did they know, too? That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek."

Hermione, that had stood up in front of the map, answered him without looking away. "Of course they did, they weren't at the funeral."

"How do you know that?"

"Well," Hermione looked at Sherlock "Mycroft charges other people with things he doesn't want to do. Matinees, reports, funerals…" John temper was rising, she knew that much with just a glance at him. She then decided to change the subject. "See you've shaved it off"

"aa Yeah. Wasn't working for me.

Sherlock directed his attention to John again.

"I'm glad."

"What, you didn't like it?

"No. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven."

Hermione, uninterested flicking some of the papers over the parliament on the map "And you wonder why there are writing of you two going on at it like rabbits."

John made a face to that and slowly walked to his old chair. He sat down, grunting.

"How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, not bad. Bit ... smoked."

"What?" She turned around and looked at him, and she almost hit herself for not having seen it before. She was so preoccupied with Sherlock's parents, trying not to choke him and aborting any possible outbreak of war between them that she had not realised the cuts on his face and neck. She came to him, taking his face in her hands while assessing the wounds. "What happened to you?"

He looks at her "How is it that you don't know? Didn't Mary call you? Didn't he tell you?"

"She called me yesterday but I was with Mycroft in a debriefing and it was turned off. Then I called her and told me not to worry, that everything was fine. And here Sherlock didn't find necessary to tell me, apparently. What happened? "She addressed Sherlock" Is this why you came yesterday smelling like barbeque?"

Between John and Sherlock, they filled her in. Trying to play her part as accurate as possible, she gasped when needed while her thoughts were a turmoil. There was something in all the story that did not fit, and it was Mary. John and Sherlock might have missed that key point (maybe not Sherlock, and that was something for her to monitor), because of course for them Mary was just a nurse. But she was more concern about that fact than about anything else. Anyone that wanted to get to Sherlock would have directly called Sherlock, not bypassed him with a seemingly simple nurse. And probably this had already passed Mary's mind. John, of course, was more concerned by his own role in the whole ordeal.

"Who did that? And why did they target me? Is it someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?"

"I don't know. I can't see the pattern. It's too nebulous."

He walked towards his wall of information. "Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That's what's strange."

"Gave is life."

"According to Mycroft. There's an underground network planning an attack on London – that's all we know."

Hermione went to Sherlock "I do agree, the intel in this is unusually scarce. An underground network is very unspecific."

* * *

She was positively mortified. She had left John and Sherlock alone in Baker Street and had decided to call Mary for a coffee and a much-needed talk when Mycroft had called her. He had conveniently booked a meeting and he was "sadly unable" to accompany Margaret and Siger to a Japanese exhibition at The British Museum. She had, of course, met with them and gladly roamed the galleries she loved. But the innocent Japanese exhibition dear mommy and daddy Holmes wanted to see so much turned to be about sex and pleasure in Japanese art. And while the pictures had been nice, she really did not want to hear what the Holmes progenitors did in their free time. A very difficult task, as contrary to their children, they were being over-sharing. At least she had ammunition in case Sherlock or Mycroft started to become too much to handle.

Upon entering her living room, she saw Mary inspecting the microscope that had found its way back to the kitchen table from downstairs.

"I wouldn't touch that."

"You look like if you just had seen a ghost."

"Worse" She sat down in Sherlock's chair, resting her head in the cool leather of the back. "I've seen two adorable elderly people transform into horny teenagers before my eyes. I mean, good for them, but Jesus, I am not going to be able to forget some of the things I've heard."

"Sherlock's parents?"

Hermione nodded, and that threw Mary into a hysterical laughter. "Well, now we know who has kept all the libido in that family."

Hermione smiled, still with her eyes closed, and muttered. "Shame"

"What was that?" Mary was smirking at her, which in turn made her groan. She was not going to let it slide. "Are we attracted to brilliant, robotic Sherlock Holmes?"

 _And tall and handsome and violinist hands that she had already imagined playing other "instruments"_

"Don't be ridiculous." She got up "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Well, as long as someone hasn't called me yet to talk about my non-engagement, apparently _very_ busy imagining Sherlock's sex life..."The teasing in her voice matched her curled lips. "John came to see Sherlock, and they haven't come back."

"Haven't they?" She looked at the map. "That's weird. Well, that means they are chummy again."

"I guess..."

"What happened Mary?" Hermione turned to her. "Why would anyone send you a message?"

"So John told you" She sighed and cover her face with her hands, slowly sliding them until they were covering just her mouth. "I honestly don't know, and that terrifies me. And do not tell me we have Mycroft."

"I wasn't going to"

Mary stood up and hugged her, which Hermione gave back. "I am so sorry, love"

She looked the blond in the eye, a sad smile on her face.

"You are not going to tell me 'I told you so'?"

"No" Mary took her face in her hands." You are hurt. I get it. And I understand it. And even if I do not trust Mycroft, he would do anything for you, and for Sherlock. That I have no doubt about it. You are safe."

"It's not me who I am worried about, Mary."

"Do not worry. I am grown woman, and you have done more for me than anyone else in this world. Let me, us, take care of you now."

Hermione felt the tear in the brim of her eyes, and Mary hugged her again. She had rarely felt safer than when in Mary's arms. They heard footsteps in the staircase and they disentangled from each other, while Hermione wiped the tears away. Sherlock entered first and without acknowledging any of them, dropping himself on his armchair, while John kissed Mary. Hermione looked at Sherlock.

"Where have you been?"

"Aborting a terrorist attack while Sherlock was being his typical cock-self" John was hugging Mary by her waist but he was smiling, and Sherlock had turned his head and was sniffing his armchair.

"Why does my chair smell like Chanel?"

* * *

It took Hermione a whole day to convince Sherlock to have an engagement party at Baker Street, taking into account he had been the one interrupting the actual engagement in the first place.

 _"You owe them, Sherlock."_

 _"Mmmm, nope" He was tuning his violin, which had been not touched ever since he 'died'._

 _"Sherlock" She stood in front of him, between him and the window, her small height making him look down at her. She might be small, but she was fierce and she did not give up. He better understood that. "We are going to throw a party tomorrow for John and Mary, and we are going to have champagne and we are going to invite Greg, and Molly and her fiancé."_

 _"Or what?"_

 _"Or I'll tell you what your parents do behind closed doors in their free time."_

 _He squinted at her, while she stood there, smiling. "You are bluffing."_

 _"I am not. You know your parents, Sherly, you know how over-sharing they can be. Does sex alarm you, Mr Holmes?"_

 _"Sex doesn't alarm me"_

 _"Good" Sherlock stood in silence, apparently trying to disintegrate her with his eyes. She took a deep breath. "So apparently your father does this thing-"_

 _"Stop"_

 _"- your mother loves it, she swears. Siger goes down and-"_

 _He did a creaking noise with his violin. "Fine. We'll do that party."_

 _"Pleasure doing business with you."_

They were now in the living room, having the promised glass of champagne. Hermione could hear the noise in the street because of course, Sherlock had chosen this morning to tell everyone his story. She was sipping from her drink when Sherlock had appeared in the room, his phone in his ear, unbuttoned jacket and a purple shirt that Hermione knew was going to come and visit during her lonely nights. Mary had caught her stare because she had kicked her not too discretely under the table. He came next to Hermione and took a bottle, popping the cork, and poured a glass that he offered to Hermione, only to pour one for himself. Another peace offering, she guessed. Next to her Mary was talking to Mrs Hudson about the date of the wedding.

"Are you happy now..." He stopped, doubting. "Hermione?"

"Very. As you are. You forget I have been working with Mycroft. I have a degree in Holmes studies."

He smiled and clinked his glass to her.

"You will be there, Sherlock?"

"Weddings – not really my thing." Hermione saw how he winked at Mary. How she wished he were not … whatever he was.

Molly entered the room, with her fiancé after her, holding her hand.

"Hello, everyone."

"Hi"

Mary looked at Hermione, who has her eyes on Sherlock. This was going to be interesting.

"Sherlock, this is Tom."

"It's really nice to meet you at last. Quite a feat, right, coming back from the dead."

Sherlock held out his hand to Tom, and they shook hands, Sherlock, not uttering a word.

Greg walked across the room behind them. "Champagne?"

"Yes"

Sherlock's jaw dropped open a little and he turned his eyes towards John, who grinned back at him expectantly. He then turned to Mary and Hermione who were discretely covering their mouths with their glasses. John tugged him outside the room, and both disappeared downstairs.

Tom was bewildered. "What happened? Is there something on my face? "

Greg chocked on his own champagne and Mrs Hudson patted him on the back. Definitely, life at Baker Street has just got more interesting.

* * *

Final chapter from "The Empty Hearse". Next one, "The sign of Three" will be covered in three chapters.

I hope you liked it. I tried to change as little as possible the actual interactions. You might be disappointed if you love Molly's characters that I have substituted her by Hermione. But I have the feeling that the actual series did it as a hint of romance between them, and that is not how this story will go.

All the transcripts have been extracted from the work of Ariane DeVere which did an amazing job recollecting them. The link to them is in my profile.

NOTE: Sherlock's mum was called Violet because of something I read online, but upon seen His Las Vow, I saw that her book had the initials "M. ", so I had to change the name.


	12. The sign of three Act I:Exposition

Before the chapter starts, I want to thank the anonymous reviewer "canela", for their words. Thanks to them I have revised the first chapters with a grammar check I recently got and fixed them as much as I could (in case someone wants to re-read them). It is not as good as a beta, but it would have to do until – or if – I get a beta. Thanks again for your kind words and advice!

And than you to all those who reviewed, favourited or followed this story. You make my day. Even if you just say great in a comment I am already happy!

Also, parts of the chapter are excerpts of the episodes. I got the transcriptions from Ariane DeVere, who did an amazing - and thorough - job collecting them.

Now, the same drill as always.

 **Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

* * *

 **Chapter 12: The sign of three. Act I - Exposition.**

She had been relaxing in the warm bathtub when a metal rattle had mingled with the music from the radio. She had dismissed it, until she had heard it again, this time accompanied by the turning of a knob and a mild swear. Wrapping herself in a towel, she had opened the door finding Sherlock crunched in front of her bedroom door, his white shirt tightening around his back and shoulders. He had discarded his blue dressing gown on the floor beside his tools and was moving a large stencil inside the lock.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

When he heard his name, he had turned, swiftly standing straight, hiding whatever he had in his hands behind him. Pretending that she had not caught him trying to force a door.

"Nothing."

"You cannot pick the lock, it has magic on it."

"You are not supposed to use magic when I am around."

"I haven't, have I? I did when you weren't here." She tried to pass by him towards the door but he stubbornly blocked her path, looking down at her.

"I am sure it is still forbidden."

She sighed, throwing her head back, and remembering John. A couple of days back, when Sherlock had come into the flat after an unfruitful search and had made unpleasant deductions about John's weight, the good doctor had commented that Sherlock was finally back to his 'usual cock-self'. She was already aware that the Sherlock she had been living with was not the Sherlock everyone else seemed to be used to. John had mentioned that Sherlock had never shared the flat with anyone but him, let alone a woman, so Sherlock might need some time to feel comfortable with her. They talked now and then, she would give him some insight into his cases if John was not available, they even had had some takeaway. Apparently, that was all he needed. All the small things they had so sparsely shared had equipped Sherlock with the confidence needed to start pushing the boundaries none of them had bothered discussing.

It all started when Hermione, coming from her daily run, had found a severed hand wrapped in kitchen foil on the table where she ate. That had led to an hour-long, loud argument about why it was unhygienic to have dead things on a breakfast table. He said that the solution was simple: she should have breakfast somewhere else. The next row had been about the living room. After Hermione had been sneezing for a whole afternoon when stacking some books, she said they could not be living among the dust and scattered newspapers everywhere. He called it 'foolproof alarm system and carefully arranged knowledge'. For her, it looked very much like laziness.

But every fight had been a preparation for the big one: the bedroom. Sherlock wanted everything back as it was when he had been living there, and that included having his old bedroom back. She said that if she had been able to handle his brother for as long as she had, she was not about to give in to him. And when he had understood that his flattery and puppy eyes, those that normally worked with Molly and John, would not work with her, he had planned another path of action: pick locking.

Thank Merlin she was not as dumb as he thought she was and had seen this coming.

She quickly thrust forward, trying to reach the door with her left hand, but Sherlock was faster, intercepting her wrist. "I would like to step into my room now, Sherlock."

But Sherlock was not listening.

No.

Sherlock's eyes were locked on her forearm, where the scars she had forgotten to conceal when rushing out of the toilet where out in the open. She tried to pry her hand away but Sherlock was stronger, and kept her in place, still examining the letters engraved on her skin.

"What is this?"

"Nothing." She started to struggle, trying at the same time to keep the towel in place. "Sherlock! Let go!"

He complied, but never stood away from her or the door. "What is that?"

"Battle Scars. I am sure you are quite familiar with those."

"Not that. The word. _Mudblood_."

"It is more than that." She did not want to talk about this. But he was not going to move without an answer. "It's an insult. It's how magic families call people like me, with muggle…with non-magical parents."

She managed to get to the door and opened it, standing on the threshold.

"But it looks fresh."

"It was done with a cursed object, many years ago. I cannot heal it, just hide it. I have it covered all the time. You shouldn't have seen it."

"Why? I have thousands of scars, why would you cover them?"

"Jesus Sherlock, cannot you understand human feelings?" She looked hurt, and she wanted him to know it. "I was tortured when I was seventeen. A grown woman decided to carve my arm because she thought people like me were an abomination. Because she thought we shouldn't be alive. Cannot you understand why I do not want to see it and have people asking about it?"

She was about to close it when she heard his voice again. "Is she alive? That woman. "

Hermione opened the door again and saw Sherlock, in the middle of the hallway, intently looking at her, his eyes dark and hard. She shook her head.

"Then that," he pointed to her arm. "is a trophy. You are alive, she is not. You won."

With that words, he left her and went to the sitting room, as though what had just happened were nothing. Hermione closed the door and rested her forehead on the cold wood, her breathing still shaking and two lonely tears travelling down her cheeks. There were times she understood John at a level she never thought possible. I was difficult to imagine Sherlock as the heartless robot everyone painted him when he could deliver the exact words someone needed to hear. She did not want to know if he did really think them or if she was so easy to read that he had just said what he knew would make her give him the answers he looked for. She knew he was not below doing it. But whatever it was, his words made her feel safe.

* * *

With Sherlock in town and John back to his blogger-slash-helper position, her job as a monitor was done. Although Mycroft had let her know in no unclear terms that he might be asking about Sherlock's whereabouts in a near future, she had been cleared and put back in the mission rota. Her first assignment came soon after, leading her to Chile in early March, and leaving her without news from London until she went back at the beginning of April. Mycroft had grudgingly called Mrs Hudson to let her know she was coming back, and indeed she had found a beaming Martha at the doorstep of 221b the morning she arrived. After fusing about her – as any doting mother would do – she went upstairs, finding Sherlock sat on his chair, in silence, eyes closed and hand stapled under his chin. She made a show of leaving her suitcase more forcefully than needed on the floor, but not even the sound bothered him.

"I know we are not the best mates but you could at least say hello to me after a month away."

She received no answer, and Sherlock made no sign that he had heard her. "Sherlock?" She stood in front of him, bare inches away from his knees. She snapped her fingers right under his nose, and still, he did not move. Hermione was about to reach for his shoulder when Mrs Hudson appeared carrying a tea-tray with her.

"Oh darling, I wouldn't try. He is always like this. He will come back eventually."

She looked him again, at his furrowed eyebrows and tightly pressed lips. John had already warned her about this, about his 'mind palace'. John said he could spend days without talking to him, so maybe this was the start of a week-long self-confinement.

She continued with her day as normal, unpacking, eating, and even listening to music without Sherlock even batting an eye. Well into the evening, she had sat down in John's chair, curled up with a book in her lap, the tiredness of the day wearing her down. When sleep was about to claim her, she heard a distant voice calling her. She looked up and saw Sherlock looking at her, his long legs crossed before him, his arms resting on the side of the chair.

"So you are finally back."

"I've been back for hours, but you were somewhere inside that head of yours. Difficult case?"

He sighed "The hardest." He uncrossed his legs and went to the window, his profile a dark shadow contrasting with the dimming lights from the street below.

"I know you think we are all stupid, but I am an agent, I might be able to help you with that case."

"Don't sell yourself short, Mycroft let me know you are anything but stupid."

He turned to her and locked his hands on his back. He opened his mouth once, twice, but closed it immediately afterwards, while she waited patiently.

"John asked me to be his best man."

It took her a couple of moments to process his words, and to understand why he was so concern. She laughed and smiled at him.

"I am glad my current predicament amuses you." He turned to the window again but she got up took his arm, making him look at her.

"No, Sherlock, no. It's just... Of course, he would choose you. You are his best friend. Who would he choose?"

He stood in silence as if he were genuinely analysing her words, dissecting them. She saw there and then, in his eyes and in his barely concealed stupefaction, the problem: He did not believe he could be John Watson's best friend.

"You don't understand it, do you?"

"I … lied. I lied, and I am not...pleasant or...'friendly'." Even his mockery lacked his signature bite. "People do not like me, in general, at all."

A part of Hermione's' heart broke when she saw the real Sherlock, the person behind the legend. Despite all his height, brain and bravado, he looked so tiny and vulnerable that he could be the perfect impersonation of a puppy. She thought about how much of his short sentences was acknowledging the truth and how much was self-depreciation.

"It is a shame you don't see yourself as the people who like you see you."

"And how is that?"

She did something bold, and reached for his face, almost cradling it. This moment was so out of each other comfort zones, and it certainly seemed to be out of character for Sherlock. But after meeting Mycroft for so long, she had always wondered what might have happened to them to become machines. Sherlock did understand and feel human emotions, but he kept them so tightly warded than the few times he let some else see them they looked odd like if he were a child in the body of an adult.

"Like a human being."

"Human beings are fallible."

"Also likeable."

"Likeable is mundane, ordinary and overrated."

"Well, as impossible as you are sometimes Sherlock, we happen to like you."

"We?"

"Yes, Sherlock, even me. I still want to choke you half of the time, though." She smiled trying to relieve the tension. Going to the bookcase, she removed a plastic bag from the drawer and handed it to him. "For you. Is a speech writing book, so you have a bit of help writing the best man's speech."

"But I just told you."

"Everyone knew John would ask you but you. I bought it a month ago, before leaving."

Next morning, she found a book with a bow on the oddly clean kitchen table. The book, 'The Chemistry of Forensics: from clues to jail', was a well-worn copy and had scribbled 'W.S.S.H.' on the first interior page. She guessed this was Sherlock's unique way of saying thank you.

* * *

Saying that Sherlock had taken his duties as best man very seriously was an understatement. The wall where typically photos of crime scenes hanged had now lists of guests, a map with the place of the three short-listed venues John and Mary had picked, the menus of five different catering services and even a copy of Mary's wedding dress that she had had to convince Sherlock to remove. He had already planned every meeting he had to hold with the chosen ring-bearer, the usher, he had talked to the photography studio and had made Mycroft reserve the rings with the best jewellers in London. The speech, however, was a different matter altogether, and apparently, the one causing the most trouble. In fact, she had not heard from it until the day she had received a call from a very concerned Molly.

 _"Have a little faith in him, Molly, everything will be fine_."

 _She hanged up and went upstairs to the living room, where Sherlock was sitting in front of his computer, massaging his temples, mumbling under his breath. Her book was next to the computer, on the table. Despite their conversation, he had not uttered a word about the speech to her. She had seen crumpled sheets of paper around the flat, probably from where Sherlock had tried to start writing it down. Eventually, he changed to digital because she had stopped seeing balls of paper and had started to hear the slam sound of a laptop being closed with a bit too much of force_. _Lately, it was very common to see him like now, hours in front of the screen without typing. She sat reading when she heard hasty steps on the staircase, and then Greg, breathlessly, running into the room._

 _"What's going on?" He looks at Sherlock and then at Hermione, who was also confused._

 _"_ _This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Have you any funny stories about John?"_

 _"_ _What?" Greg and Hermione said in unison._ _On the street, police cars were heard rushing into Baker Street and screeching to a halt, and helicopters approaching. Greg stared at him, still breathing heavily. Sherlock's eyes shifted sideways as if becoming aware of the noise outside. Greg closed his eyes in exasperation while Hermione buried her head in her hands._

" _Didn't go to any trouble, did you?"_

 _"Jesus Sherlock..."_

What was certain is that Sherlock would go to any lengths possible for this wedding to be perfect. He would do literally anything, or so she suspected. She had never been able to gather from him what happened when David had come to visit him (well, she had her theories, all of them involving a certain level of threatening), but she knew for a fact that he was not above blackmailing to get the perfect ring-bearer.

 _Hermione entered the room with Tesco bags and left them on the kitchen table. When she turned to the living room, she saw Archie standing beside Sherlock, observing something on the screen of Sherlock's laptop._

 _"_ _Oh, hello Archie." She smiled at him and came closer, ruffling his hair. "Your mum is downstairs waiting. Did you have a good time with Sherlock?"_

 _The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Mr Holmes showed me things I am not supposed to tell mummy."_

 _She arched her eyebrows in disbelief and looked at Sherlock, who avoided her gaze and took his violin. "Okay, why don't you go with your mum and ask Mrs Hudson for a biscuit, yeah?"_

 _She followed Archie until he started going down the stairs, and waited for him to be out of earshot to turn to Sherlock._

 _"Sherlock, were you showing case photos to an eight-year-old boy?"_

 _"I don't know what you are talking about."_

 _"Sherlock!"_

 _"Children's curiosity needs to be fed."_

 _"Not with dead people!"_

 _"Do you suggest that they see those" he did a flourishing gesture with the violin bow, as is looking for a word "pear-shaped coloured androforms dancing around the sun and eating pancakes? I taught him something!"_

 _"If you wanted him to learn something you could have easily taught him how to multiply."_

 _"What for? They have phones now. It's wasted space."_

 _"Wait you know how to multiply, right?" She sighed and pinched her nose. "You offer him something, didn't you?"_

 _"I might have promised to show him beheadings if he does what he must."_

 _"_ _Sherlock!"_

And today, with the wedding less than a month away, Sherlock had rounded them and made them sit while they – he – finished the last touches of the ceremony. Hermione and Mary had been close to stabbing Sherlock with a knife several times, and Hermione, who lived with him, wished the wedding to be over so she could have the normal-ish Sherlock. If everyone thought he was insufferable it was because they had not had to sit through a colour theory mini-symposium by Sherlock Holmes, wedding planner. Hermione, nursing her third cup of coffee that afternoon, sat with Mary at the table, a miniature of the venue on it. John, however, was grinning while reading the papers. Sherlock had banished him a long hour ago to the chair after he had falsely –and wisely – mistaken the colours of the maids' dresses, the cake name and the flower names.

"Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11.48"

"Sherlock, the rehearsal is not for another 2 weeks. Just calm down."

"Calm? I am extremely calm, Hermione. Maybe you are the one that needs to calm down, you level of caffeine consumption is certainly alarming these days."

"Kids, let's get back to the reception." Mary had cut Hermione's retort and tapped the chair beside her, coercing Sherlock to sit down. "John's cousin, top table?"

"Hates you, can't even think about you…" He took the RSVP card and sniffed it, grimacing. "Second class post, cheap card bought at a petrol station."

"I say we stick her by the bogs" Hermione took the pin from Mary's hand and put it on the last table, while Mary asked Sherlock who else hated her. Sherlock and Hermione shared a glance over the table, while Sherlock discreetly handed Mary a piece of paper.

"Table four is done..."Hermione ticked it out of the list. "Table five, Major James Sholto hasn't answered."

"Who he?"

"Oh, John's old commanding officer. I don't think he's coming."

"He'll be there, Mary."

"Well, he needs to RSVP, then."

John stared at her and firmly stated. "He'll be there." He read from his phone. "'My husband is three people.' It's interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin."

Sherlock squatted down the coffee table while answering. "Identical triplets – one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes." He reached under the table and pulled out a tray with two serviettes folded into different shapes. He gestured at them as she looked up at Mary. "Swan, or Sydney Opera House?"

"Where'd you learn to do that?!"

When Sherlock went on a tirade about where and why he had learned to do that, she sent Mary a quick text under the table. He was terrified. Mary, who was arguing with him, read the text and faked in a split of a second a call to lure John into the kitchen. Sherlock went back to the table and oversaw the disposition of the tables until his finger reached the name that will be sitting next to him.

"Janine Hawkins? Who's her? Is she the maid of honour? Why are you not the maid of honour?"

"Not really into the spotlight. And Mary knows I look hideous in the mauve –"

"Lilac"

"- Lilac she is so very fond of. I'll probably be with Greg, trying to shield him from annoyingly happy couples." She saw how Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Also, I could have been called for a mission as it happened back in March. I did not want to leave my duties of maid of honour half way if that were the case."

"Mycroft would have fixed it."

"This is my job, Sherlock, I cannot just expect Mycroft to let me go every time I have something else to do."

"Mmm." Sherlock sat back on the floor and Hermione started revising the to-do list he had given her, without paying attention to Sherlock. When she stopped to ask him about the wine delivery, she saw him surrounded by a hundred Opera House, scattered over carpet, table and himself. Hermione hid her laugh behind her hands and looked at Mary and John who were halfway between amused and scared, apparently. John quickly convinced Sherlock to leave for 'socks' leaving them alone. Mary let herself down next to Hermione while toying with the names left to arrange.

"So... Now they are gone..."

"Mary, don't."

"What? I am just curious. We haven't talked properly in ages, so I thought maybe..."

"Did you really think that something was going to happen Mary? It's Sherlock Holmes we are talking about." She got up and walked around the room, laughing. "He literally had a naked woman before him and he didn't even get an erection. John can bear witness to it." Mary said nothing, just had a saucy smile playing on her lips while pinning a red dot on the front table.

"Ok, what do you want me to say? Yes, he's a very, very attractive man. Or robot. But to have sex, Mary, the attraction has to go both ways. And Sherlock apparently doesn't swing to any of them."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. I was thinking of placing Greg next to Molly and Tom, and you between Greg and Mrs H."

* * *

The morning of the wedding started early for the inhabitants of Baker Street if the sound upstairs and downstairs were anything to go by. Hermione had barely started to unzip the bag with her dress when Sherlock, wearing for some reason slacks and a shirt, opened the door without knocking, surprising her.

"Sherlock! I could have been naked here!"

"I need you."

"As suggestive as that is, Sherlock, I need to get dressed." She seized his buffering for pushing him out of her room. "You need to get dressed! Your brother's car is arriving in two hours!"

Despite the light red that tinted his cheeks, he sighed and dragged her by to the living room, not hearing her protests that he was still in her sleep clothes. He then stood in front of her, took her right hand in his and he put the other in the bare skin of her waist that her tank top left uncovered. The feeling of his somewhat cold fingers against her warm skin made her shiver, and she froze in place praying for him to not comment on it or her clear physical reaction. He cleared his throat.

"I need you for road testing"

"What?"

"The song. I need to be sure it can be danced."

"Sherlock this is ridiculous. Of course, it can be danced"

"The sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we can get dressed."

The song started playing and Sherlock moved with it, guiding her around the room, his eyes never leaving hers. Although she had received dancing lessons in her fourth year and she did not consider herself bad at it, he was another thing altogether. Sherlock was so annoyingly gracious that she looked like a horrible, clumsy person beside him. On top of that, the music was perfect, surrounding them with finesse, and she had to focus to not step on Sherlock's feet. So much she did not hear Mrs Hudson entering.

"Shut up, Mrs Hudson."

"I haven't said a word."

Hermione heard and felt Sherlock's sigh on her face as he continued to waltz her around the room. _"_ You're formulating a question. It's physically painful watching you thinking." He took away his arms and picked the pen, writing on the music sheet, leaving Hermione in the middle of the room, still not quite sure of what had just happened.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm bringing you your morning tea." She poured some milk into a teacup. _"_ You're not usually awake, so Hermione and I enjoy conversations without you deeming them stupid"

Hermione flashed her a bright smile while taking the saucer, sitting on the arms of Sherlock chair, while Sherlock sat on the cushion. "You bring me tea in the morning?"

"Well, where d'you _think_ it came from?!"

"I don't know. I just thought it sort of _happened_."

"Your mother has a lot to answer for." She said, taking the cup and saucer over to him, and looking at them both.

"So – it's the big day, then!"

" _What_ big day?"

"Stop being impossible." Hermione looked at Mrs Hudson over the rim of her cup and winked at her. Sherlock glanced sideways at her and then at his landlady.

"Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday and then carry on living together. What's big about that?"

"It changes people, marriage."

"Mmm, no it doesn't."

"Well, you wouldn't understand 'cause you always live alone."

Sherlock is lifting his teacup to his mouth but stops momentarily. "Your husband was executed for double murder. You're hardly an advert for companionship." He drank, but his teacup tumbled after Hermione hit him in the shoulder. Foreseeing the inevitable argument that normally followed Sherlock's interventions, she excused herself for the shower, hearing eventually Sherlock yelling something about biscuits, and then his steps for his bedroom. They had less than an hour to get ready. After finishing her make-up and hair, she took out her gown. It was a beautiful red gown Mary had chosen for her, long, with thin straps and deep cleavage in the front and at the back. And then, taking coat, heels and clutch, she went downstairs, finding Sherlock waiting next to the door, holding it for Mrs Hudson.

How could this impossible, stubborn, machine of a man look this good in a suit that rarely made anyone any favour? He was already in his coat, holding a box with his top hat inside. He looked at her and for a moment, his eyes burned her exposed skin, and she thought they were railing along her arms and neck. Sherlock opened his mouth, about to make a remark. Maybe he would be nice enough as to say something good about the dress.

"You are too pale for red."

And with that, the charm was over.

"Cock."

* * *

Next chapter, the wedding! TSoT will be covered in three chapters.

I have a confession. This started as the chapter I liked the less, and now is probably one my favourites. It has evolved so much since I planned it. I feel I have evolved with it, and I think Sherlock and Hermione have evolved with it. I like to save the first version of the chapter and compare it with the last and both characters have nothing to do with each other.

This being said, I am still doubtful about how this chapter and the next fit together. I think is because the way the actual chapter is done, with all the flashbacks. I hope it makes sense when you read them all together.

And, with this chapter, the story reaches the mark of 50,000 words! I am so happy about this. This is the first time I write this much for someone to read, and I am very grateful to all of you that read this, even if this is a minor pairing.

Beth


	13. The Sign Of Three-Act II:Interlude

First things first. Thank you to all of those who favourited, followed, reviewed, or simply read, this story. 'Pieces of a chess game' has reached 300 followers! I am so happy. I thought this was going to be read by no one because crossovers of minor pairings tend to be like that, but you have proved me wrong! Thank you so much.

I am also announcing a new series when this one is over. It doesn't have a name yet, but it's going to be Hermione's life from after the war up until pretty much the start of this story. It is in its infancy, and it still needs to grow into something I can work with, but it will come.

 **Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gattiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 13: The Sign of Three, Act II: Interlude**

As promised, the car hired by Mycroft pick them up – and Mr Chatterjee, apparently Mrs Hudson's plus one – at Baker Street a good two hours before the wedding. The only sound accompanying the soft murmur of the engine was Mrs Hudson constant chatter, talking to everyone and no one. Hermione did her best trying to keep up with the conversation, but her mind was at the wedding. More specifically, on Sherlock. Despite the façade of confidence and boredom he currently portrayed, she knew better. It was not just because of their rare exchange of pleasantries when he confessed to her some months back. He had been restless for the whole week, not quite knowing what to do now that planning was over, demanding cases and when those were not available nicotine patches. She had started to think that he had not exaggerated when he said this had been the hardest case he had tackled.

The driver stopped at the entrance of the small church John and Mary had chosen for the ceremony. The usher, David, approached them – suspiciously avoiding Sherlock's gaze and mostly talking to Hermione – and offered to accompany Mrs Hudson and her partner to the main nave. He pointed Sherlock and Hermione in the general direction to the future newlywed's chambers. They walked in silence across the hallway, with the background noises of the people starting to take their places.

"Stop doing that. It's irritating."

She halted for a second "What – "

"Yes, I am fine. No, I am not nervous. Yes, my speech is complete and ready to be delivered." He said this still with his back to her and then turned to continue talking. "Now I suggest you enter with Mary before your temporary stupidity dampens my opinion of you."

He turned and disappeared into the corridor of his right, leaving her rooted in the spot. In any normal circumstances, she would be spitting angry. But today was not a normal circumstance, and she had a lot of hours of stress to go through. Massaging her temples, she looked at the door to her right, which had a big sign that read 'Bride' in brilliant, lilac letters.

She entered without knocking. The room was filled with bags, the oyster-coloured wedding dress hanging from the tall wardrobe dominating the room. The hand-made dress with the antique lace was still in its transparent protection, waiting for its owner to wear it, who was still in a bathrobe. Mary was sitting in the vanity, while one of her bridesmaids curled one short strand of hair. She saw Mary's smiling reflection in the mirror.

"Can you leave us five minutes, Lottie?"

Lottie looked at Hermione and then at Mary again. "Ok, but just five. We have to finish and we are already late. I'll see where Cath and Janine are."

When they were left alone, Hermione closed the distance between then and took Mary's hands. They looked at each other, without saying a word. They did not need to, they had never needed to. Mary's eyes started to shine but Hermione wiped the unshed tears with her thumbs and kissed her forehead. She then cradled her face and smiled.

"It's a happy day and you'll look spectacular. No reason for tears." She whispered.

Mary laughed while she dried two drops that had finally left her eyes, and then took Hermione's hands again. "I just cannot believe this is happening."

"I wish you all the happiness in the world, my love." Mary's arms encircled Hermione's waist, hiding her face in Hermione's body, being warmly squeezed by her. Hermione felt the familiar sting in her eyes and disentangled herself from Mary, both sniffing and laughing. "Well, enough of that. Lottie would have my head if you get a bloated face. I am going to see your future husband and keep an eye on Sherlock. I am afraid he might get an allergic reaction to all the love and chitchat around him."

"I would pay for someone to record Sherlock Holmes singing to Abba."

Their laugh was interrupted by the bridesmaids with Janine leading the way, who banished Hermione out of the room. She then crossed the stone hallway, directing the people she was encountering towards the sitting area. She found a room with a more inconspicuous sign with the word 'Groom' emblazoned on it. She heard steps following her knock and then Greg opened the door. "Hermione! Wow" He looked at her from head to toe. "Sorry, please, come in."

"Hello Greg, you look very dashing yourself." She greeted him with a smile and entered, the door closing behind her. John was in front of the large mirror, fumbling with his tie. His hands were trembling so much that it would be a miracle if he was able to do even a knot. At his right, Sherlock was uninterestedly typing on his phone, his suit as perfect as it was when they left home. Hermione went to John and took his hands, steading them.

"Let me get that."

He sighed with relief and let his arms fall to his sides. "You look fantastic."

"Amen to that." Greg had served himself a tumbler of amber liquid, probably whiskey. Typical in the groom's quarters for calming pre-wedding jitters and possible run-aways.

"Save your flattering words for your wife to be, doctor." She finished with the tie and then looked at the boxes with the lapel flowers while John buttoned his waistcoat. Two of them, one for the groom, one for the best man. Who, of course, had not even bothered to put it on. She took one of the flowers out while walking to Sherlock, but he stopped her with a glare.

"I can do it."

"Humour me." He rolled his eyes and said nothing, giving her silent permission by pocketing his phone. She opened herself his jacket and put the reverse of her hand over his heart while grasping the jacket and the safety pin. Although she heard John talking with Greg, she felt observed. She looked up through her lashes, seeing Sherlock staring at her. He was a fair four inches taller than her even in her heels, and she was now fully aware of the amount of skin he could appreciate from this position. He did not seem to pay attention to it – not that she was expecting him to. His face, as always, was unreadable. Focusing on her task and not the man she was working on, she talked to John.

"How are we holding up, John?"

"I feel like throwing up." She felt under her hands the breath of air Sherlock typically took before starting a bad-timed, offensive rant, and she pricked him with the safety pin before holding it in its place, effectively shutting him. She gave a couple of pats to his lapels and threw him a smirk in response to his nasty scowl. She turned to John to do the same.

"You'll be fine."

"Is Mary ready?"

"Almost." She put her hand on his shoulders. "She almost shines of happiness."

A nervous smile was on his lips, but somehow knowing that she was happy with this happening relaxed him a bit. David knocked the door, announcing John could enter the service anytime from now. She hugged John and squeezed him. "Into battle, Captain."

* * *

"I know I should be gushing over my husband, but Sherlock looks like a proper gentleman, don't you think?"

Hermione did not answer to Mary, her eyes elsewhere. Some meters away from them, Sherlock and Janine were talking, her intentions clear by her disposition and body language. The ceremony had ended twenty minutes ago, and the photographer was going around them taking the customary photos. Janine had been those twenty minutes joined by the hip to Sherlock. What was impressive was that Sherlock seemed to be…behaving.

"And I mean, Janine has been very vocal about it." Mary continued. "She won't mind the traditional bridesmaid/best man fooling around in a cupboard."

Indeed, Sherlock Holmes' sexuality has been lengthily discussed during the hen-do, and Janine had been the main voice. She had been asking Mary about the best way of getting closer to him, undeterred by the warning of him being pretty much asexual. Hermione could perfectly understand her. That man, in all his arrogance, had the appeal and presence of a sex god. For reasons, she could not well comprehend. He was not especially beautiful. He had gorgeous eyes, yes. His cheekbones seemed to have been chiselled in marble. Apart from that, his overall features were strange, weirdly resembling those of an otter. But heavens above if her knees did not quiver every morning when he got up and said good morning with the low rumble of his rough voice from sleeping.

Hermione turned to her in the moment Janine had taken Sherlock's arm, missing his frowned features.

"Is there anything you want, Mary?"

"Nothing! But, you know, Janine, she won't back down."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She crossed her arms, but Mary just smiled and shrugged, gesturing for the photographer to take a photo of them.

* * *

The reception had started with the appetizer round, and everyone chatting politely with people they did not want to talk to. Hermione had been rounded by one of John's cousins and her husband and was relying on her wine to help her through their non-stop drilling about everything they had not liked: Mary, the venue, Mary's dress, the weather, Mary's make-up. She wondered how was it that people did not understand the facial expressions of 'I am bored' or 'I am about to plot your murder'. She excused herself when she saw John going towards a scarred uniformed man that had just walked in and was lurking near the entrance.

Hermione put a hand on Mary's waist to warn her of her presence and whispered. "So that's him."

Sherlock, that of course had also wanted to ask Mary, narrowed his eyes as he looked at the two men. "Major Sholto" His voice had a tint of disapproval. "If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?"

"He mentions him all the time, right Mary?"

Mary nodded "Never shuts up about him." She took a sip from her wine glass and grimaces. "I chose this wine, it's bloody awful."

"I wasn't very convinced about it the first time either."

"We should have chosen the other one, I reckon."

"I'll remember it the next time you get married, Mary."

Sherlock looked at them, confused. He was not minding them, as he was focused on John and the mayor. They seemed to be deep in conversation. "It's definitely _him_ that he talks about? I've never even heard him say his name."

"Well, he is almost a recluse. I didn't think he'd show up at all. John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

Sherlock seems to be affronted, like if he had been personally victimized. " _He_ is? _He's_ the most unsociable? Ah, _that's_ why he's bouncing round him like a puppy."

Hermione tried not to laugh and looked at Mary, who grinned and hugged Sherlock's arm. "Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know."

"Stop smiling."

"It's my wedding day!"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pulls free and walks away, engrossed in his phone. Hermione smirked and clinked her glass with Mary, who gagged again on her wine. Hermione stopped a waiter and took a glass of water for Mary, and told her to not to punish herself if she did not like the wine.

She was not sure, but just in case, water was less dangerous than alcohol.

* * *

The wedding meal went by quickly between champagne and Tom's chatter with Mrs Hudson. Greg had been getting less gloomy as the wine ran freely around the table, but her attention – and apparently, Molly's – had been on the top table. Mary and John were the perfect picture of marital bliss, and that left Sherlock without the buffer he normally had on social occasions. He had barely eaten, drank less and was trying to have a normal conversation with Janine. The point was, that someone as reticent as Sherlock about human contact, he was accepting quite a lot from Janine. And that could mean two things: he either genuinely liked her, or he was so nervous his brain was just focusing on what he had to do and everything else was on autopilot. Hermione's rational and irrational brain favoured the latter.

The moment they all had been worried about was scheduled to start after the dessert. The master of ceremonies tapped a spoon against a glass, getting everyone's attention and praying silence for Sherlock. Everyone's eyes were fixated on him while applauding. Sherlock raised to his feet while buttoning his jacket, his position more like a soldier than a friend delivering a speech. He started without losing a beat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends ... and ... erm ... others. "He stopped and blinked. By her side, Greg moved in his chair. " Er ... w... A-a-also ..." Mary lifted a thumb to her mouth, rubbing it on her top lip. He was looking at them now. She saw Mrs Hudson and Greg's looks of concern. Dear God, what was John thinking? No, what has she been thinking? She should have made him practice the speech with her. She should have made sure he was ready. John murmured something and apparently that jolted Sherlock out of his blankness, as he patted his pocket and took the telegrams from the table. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at the guests, swallowing hard.

"First things first. Telegrams." He picked up the cards and when she thought he was going to start being a normal best man, he did what he did best: sprouting condescend facts that left everyone feeling like an idiot. "Well, they're not actually telegrams. We just _call_ them telegrams. I don't know why. Wedding tradition... because we don't have enough of that already, apparently."

John narrowed his eyes but said nothing, as Sherlock started reading the telegrams. Sherlock was having troubles with the terms of endearment written on them.

"Mary – lots of love ..." He breathes out an almost silent 'Oh.' John and Mary look up at him, and he added, disparagingly "... poppet ... Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this."

John reached out and took Mary's hand, who smiled reassuringly at him but with a strange look in her eyes. Hermione frowned slightly. She did not remember any of Mary's friends being called Cam. Was Cam a diminutive? Camilla? Cameron? Neither did she thought anyone they knew could be as insensitive as to remember her the family she did not have. But she could not think about it further because of course, Sherlock was not only a drama queen as his brother but also apparently an unintentional showman.

"Um, 'special day' ... 'very special day' … 'love' … 'love'…" He dropped on the table one card after the other without reading them. "Bit of a theme – you get the general gist. People are basically fond."

Hermione heard the laughter around her and she could not help but feel a tiny bit of relief. Maybe the usual uninterested Sherlock was going to come through as some comic relief for the people that did not know him. Sherlock gestured to John.

"John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John." John smiled at him and then Sherlock addressed the audience. "When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused…" Understatement of the century, something she was sure Greg would agree on. Sherlock started to explain how that conversation she had not witnessed- but she would have paid for -, but John was frowning as if he were unable to remember that this actually happened. "... and indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being ... moved by it. It later transpired that I had said _none_ of this out loud."

She and other guests joined John's laugh. Maybe she should trust him more. Even being uncomfortable, he seemed to have grasped what the speech was about. Sherlock then reached into his jacket pocket, clearing his throat, and took out a handful of cue cards, looking at each one and putting it on the table as he talks to himself.

"Done that. ... Done that ... Done that bit ... Done that bit ... Done that bit ... Hmm ..." He looked up at the guests again, then turned to John." I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you."

And there we go. Hermione tensed in her seat, observing Mary's surprised look and John bewildered look. Sherlock apparently could not care less about them.

"All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honour the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species." The guests begin to look uncomfortable and some of them start murmuring quietly to each other. Greg and Molly look at Sherlock in horror. Hermione does a little movement with her hand on her neck, trying for Sherlock to abort. He paused, and Hermione breathed again. "But anyway... let's talk about John."

If she thought what he had just said was the worst he could say, she was wrong. With every word that came out of Sherlock's mouth he was digging deeper and deeper a hole she was not very sure how he would get out of. Nothing escaped of his particular views: Not John, not the poor bridesmaids, not God. Mary facepalmed and John was half hiding behind his clasped hands, while some guests were muttering, including those in her own table that already knew him. Sherlock paused again.

 _"_ The point I'm _trying_ to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous ... unaware of the beautiful ... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."

The guest had fallen silent again and were listening intently. Hermione and Mary exchanged a glance.

"Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

Hermione left out the breath she was holding. She listened the same sound by her sides. She smiled when she saw how Mary smiled proudly at her husband. Around her, people were starting to smile.

"John, I am a ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion. "Sherlock smiled. _"_ Actually, now I _can._ Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss… So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will _never_ let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.

Hermione wiped her tears and smiled proudly at Sherlock, who briefly returned the smiled. Mrs Hudson whimpered and held a tissue to her nose. Molly wiped tears from her eyes with her serviette. Sniffled and coughs could be heard from other guests. John turned to Mary and whispered something to her.

"Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John ..." He trails off as he looks up and sees so many of the guests crying. He focused on her for a moment, maybe thinking she would be the one acting normal, but she was also dabbing the corner of her eyes. "What's wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John? Did I do it wrong? "

John stood up and pulled him into a tight hug. The guest broke into an applause and John and a still very confused Sherlock shared some words. Sherlock tried to start talking again but John stopped him on, and the applause died down.

"So, on to some funny stories about John. If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would ... be better. On we go. So, for funny stories ..." He reached into his pocket and takes out his phone "... one has to look no further than John's blog. The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticise things a bit, but then, you know ... he's a romantic. We've tackled some strange cases…" He for some reason chose one of the few he had not solved. She remembered that case. He had come home and they had been up until the sun could almost be seen in the sky discussing how it was possible. Apparently, he wanted to do the same with the rest. The theories were ridiculous, especially Tom's meat dagger. He had done this little stunt to highlight John's values, but she wasn't sure Molly had liked it a lot.

"…The best and bravest man I know – and on top of that, he actually knows how to do stuff." John lowered his head and chuckled. "However, I'm not just here to praise John – I'm also here to embarrass him. Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course, there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

Greg leant towards her and muttered. "Do you think he would tell _everything_?"

 _"_ _So, stag do tonight?"_

 _She was giving her make-up the last touches before her cab arrived. Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop, not bothering on paying attention to her. He typed and answered her at the same time._

 _"_ _Yep." He popped the last 'p' in his obnoxious style. "John and I themed pub crawl"_

 _She snickered. "You, the great and only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, pub crawling?"_

 _"_ _We are going to every street where we found a corpse."_

 _"_ _Lovely." She strutted until she was a foot away from him. "What do you think? Is this hen-do proper?"_

 _He looked up at the screen and fixed his gaze on her. She was wearing a tuxedo. Just a tuxedo. She had seen something similar in the last Golden Globes and had decided it was a good option as any. Her make-up were only smoky eyes and discreet earrings, her hair in a high up-do. She made the scene of twirling for him._

 _"_ _You have forgotten your shirt."_

 _"_ _You know nothing about fashion, Sherlock. Do you even own jeans?"_

 _"_ _They are restrictive."_

 _"_ _Because formal slacks aren't." A single ring on the doorbell announced her cab and took her handbag and coat. "Have good night Sherlock. Do not get too drunk."_

 _He gave her a self-sufficient smirk. "I have that covered."_

 _When she had come back to Baker Street, even in her tipsy state, she had seen that Sherlock's coat was missing. Albeit it was not that late, she felt affronted that a hermit and a doctor could party for longer than a group of single woman that had been drilling about going out for the whole week. She fell asleep the same moment her head touched the pillow but had been suddenly woken up by her phone, a short ten minutes to 8. On a Sunday. After a party. The caller ID said Greg, and somehow she knew whose fault was it. Hermione had got dressed and despite trying her best, she was the advertisement for hungover: messy ponytail, yoga pants and trainers. She showed in Scotland Yard barely a half hour after Greg called her, and went straight to the main reception._

 _"_ _Good morning, detective Lestrade called me about two people in the brick. I am their contact."_

 _"_ _Names."_

 _"_ _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."_

 _The man looked into his paperwork. "We do have a John H Watson... and a William Holmes."_

 _"_ _What?"_

 _"_ _Richard, stop being a dick. You know who they are." Lestrade appeared with a coffee that gave to Hermione. "I'll go get them, you drink this. I am sorry I have called this early. Rough night?"_

 _"_ _My body cannot handle a party as well as it used to. I call it the Holmes effect" She took a sip that tasted like heaven and tampered her murderous instincts. "Just bring them Greg, so I can go home without killing any of them."_

 _She started filling the release papers and five minutes later, Greg came back, followed by a very embarrassed John and a Sherlock with an obvious headache._

 _"_ _There you have them. Two lightweights."_

 _She gave him the forms and looked at the other two men, pointing to the entrance.  
"I have a cab waiting outside. Get in the cab, both of you, now."_

 _John scurried away but Sherlock stubbornly stood where he was. She tried to move him, but he barely moved a couple of steps._

 _"_ _Where did you get that coffee from?"_

 _"_ _Sherlock, get in the cab."_

 _"_ _Did Gavin gave it to you?"_

 _"_ _It's Greg!" Lestrade shouted from the other side of the desk, revising the papers._

 _"_ _Sherlock, get in that cab now or I swear to you" She lowered her voice so only him could hear it. "I'll hex your ass into next Sunday."_

 _He was about to reply when Greg's shout filled the precinct. "OUT both of you."_

 _"_ _Thank you for the coffee Greg!" Hermione took Sherlock's arm and pulled him to the exit. She argued with him the few meters between the main door and the cab where John was waiting. She pushed the tall man into the seat while she took the one in front. John was still looking like a grounded boy. It could have been almost funny in other situation, but not for a sleep-deprived Hermione._

 _"_ _Hermione –"_

 _"_ _Shut it, John." She looked at them. "You were supposed to go for a stag do! How on earth did you end up in jail? It's a record even for you two to piss someone so much as to end up in there."_

 _"_ _Things got out of hand."_

 _"_ _Obviously." Drawled Sherlock._

 _"_ _Oh you shut up, it is always because of you. And do not make that face of feeling insulted, you know I am right, Sherlock."_

Back to the wedding, and despite how funny the actual story of the stag do was, Sherlock realised that maybe the story of a married man that used dead men houses to cheat on his wife was probably not the best idea for a marriage. Luckily, he seemed to find his way again to the actual key point of the speech, John, without causing too much trouble.

"…I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that's what made me special – quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that – I should know. He's saved mine so many times and in so many ways. This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story – a _bigger_ adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding." He picked up his own glass and raised it while the guests did likewise and stood up. The photographer walked forward with his camera. "Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is ..."

He stopped, frozen and staring blindly towards the guests. The photographer snapped several photos of him but not even the popping flashbulb made him react. Sherlock's fingers loosened slightly and his champagne glass tumbled towards the floor, crashing. He came back to reality with all the noise, and looked down at the floor, clearing his throat. He apologised to the master of ceremonies, who offered them a new glass.

"Thank you, yes. Thank you, yes." He looked at the guest, but apparently not seeing them. She felt a shiver ascending through her spine. She knew that face, he was evaluating the situation. He looked around, and if you paid attention you could almost see the engines of his brain turning behind his eyes, that moved like a scanner. Sherlock put his glass down on the table and straightened up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech – get off early, leave 'em laughing. Wise advice I'll certainly try to bear in mind. But for now ..." He put one hand on the table and quickly jumped over to the other side. The guests gasped in surprise, and he walked onto the central aisle between the tables. "... Part two. Part two is more action-based. I'm gonna ... walk around, shake things up a bit." He moved through the people, looking at them, analysing. "Who'd go to a wedding? That's the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding? Well, everyone." He clapped his hands. "Weddings are great! Love a wedding."

Hermione looked at John and gestured to him that something was wrong. Sherlock was slipping into his detective-self while straining to keep the speech going. He started bumbling, about John, clearly trying to make sense of the things that came out of his mount while his mind was elsewhere, working a thousand of revolutions per second. She looked at Mary and John, who were as confused as she was, but John had already caught on. He was in the middle of an embarrassing observation when he suddenly had addressed Greg, jerking his head towards the door.

"Geoff, the gents."

"It's Greg."

"The loos, please."

Greg's phone on the table beeped, and he reached and read a text message. He mumbled something and went in direction of the loos when she heard her phone this time. Opening her clutch, she saw the main screen showing a single word from 'SH' that read 'Photographer'. She also excused herself and left the room quietly, closing the kissing doors. When she was in the hallway, her agent training got over and searched for Greg, who was talking to the responsible for the security.

"Where is the photographer Greg?"

"What?"

"We need to find him, the photographer."

"Sherlock told me to lock the place."

"Ok…" She weighted her possibilities. "Ok, I´ll look for him, you make sure no one else leaves the building."

Inside she could hear the distant sound of Sherlock talking. She went down to the reception and asked for the photographer, but they had not seen him, and security was reticent to let her know anything without Lestrade permission. She then informed him in the veiled, subtle manners she had honed in all the years working for Mycroft, that either he let her see the CCTV cameras or she would make sure he would have a very unpleasant visit from the secret service. In the recording of barely ten minutes ago, just after Sherlock's flute had broken, the photographer had taken his car and left. She could not see the plate, but every car had been checked in. With the number, she raced downstairs to Greg. She would thank the Gods she had not ended with a broken ankle later.

"Greg!" She gave him a piece of paper, trying to catch her breath. "I need you to find this. It's the plate number of the photographer. Find him and bring him here."

She was about to go to look for Sherlock when Greg took her arm and asked. "Is he sure?"

"Positive. How many times has Sherlock been wrong?"

"Ok." He doubted for a second and then nodded. "On it. If you are looking for them, they are upstairs. Mary ran that way."

Upstairs, she found the three of them arguing outside a door.

"I'm gonna break it down."

"No, wait, John, you won't have to." The door opened. On the other side, Mayor Sholto glanced briefly at Sherlock, then lowered his eyes before looking at John.

"I believe I am in need of medical attention."

"I believe I am your doctor." He followed Sholto as he went back into the room. Giving Sherlock and Hermione a quick smile, Mary followed him.

Sherlock stood with his hands on his back, staring at the closed door. "The photographer?"

"Greg is chasing him. He will bring him back."

"Good."

"Wait, what happened?"

Sherlock smirked, "I solved a case, and John is inside, saving a life."

* * *

After all the fuss of attempted murder, ambulance, and arrest, the wedding went back to normal. In the reception room, the tables had been cleared away, and the guests were arranging themselves around an imaginary circle. In the middle, Mary and John stood, talking quietly. On a low stage at the end of the room, Sherlock was getting ready, setting the orchestra violin, obviously displeased with the much lesser quality of the instrument. He had made that perfectly clear in the rehearsal two days ago, when she had gone with him to see the place, but he had flatly refused to let his violin out of his flat. Although she had not voiced her concerns to Mary, she knew Sherlock would get restless as the hours passed. She had shared enough time with him as to know he did not do well surrounded by people even if he actually liked those people. Maybe the adrenaline of a solved case would calm him down, but for the past half an hour he had been studying the doors as if looking for an easy exit. She deduced – she almost laughed at her choice of words – he would be using the one behind the stage. Even if she was not the maid of honour, she had the moral obligation of making sure this day was perfect.

Taking a cigarette and a lighter and putting on her coat, she went out to the cold at the same moment the violin stated to play.

* * *

 **Notes:**

This was a very dense, difficult chapter to narrow down. I hope the way it is portrayed makes sense. This is one of the few I might revisit at some point, because probably when I upload it I will think there are things still unconnected.

The next chapter is SMUT. Almost completely. If you don't want to read those parts, I will make sure to put special characters when it starts and when it ends, so you can follow the story. I´ve tried to make it as in character as I could. I think they are still Hermione and Sherlock at the end of it.

Also, the next chapter will be up in a week or so. It's mostly finished.

This leads me to the next 3 chapters, covering His Last Vow. I have bits and pieces of them but chapter 3 needs a complete re-arrangement, and the two others still have some pieces I am not sure about. So those might take a while to write.

As always, thank you for reading.

Beth


	14. The Sign of Three Act III: Climax

Here it is, my first smut ever. I hope it makes sense and it somehow stays in character. This is the chapter I am more anxious about, so any comment is welcomed to help me develop these characters further.

It is also my most descriptive chapter yet. I am not sure how it would have turned out.

Important NOTE: if you don´t feel comfortable with smut, the safe parts of the story are up until the first line break, and from the last line break till the end.

 **Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 14: The Sign of Three, Act II: Climax**

"Who leaves a wedding early?"

Sherlock turned around, seeing Hermione closing her thin coat around her, with a cigarette hanging between her fingers. He looked at her, in silence. Without leaving her place, she silently offered him the cigarette, stretching her arm. Sherlock retraced his steps on the gravel path, and took it, inhaling his first drag.

"May I ask why?"

Sherlock let the smoke out slowly, his head tilted back mere an inch, his eyes on her, the ambers reflecting on his face. From inside she could hear the music, the lights illuminating the bushes underneath the windows and barely reaching their secluded corner. She brushed his fingers, coming for her nicotine dose. His eyes involuntarily watched as her rouge lips touched the same spot his had been on seconds ago.

"Weddings are not really my thing"

"Oh, I see." She laughed, and a cloud of smoke twirled in between them. "You have called Mycroft, haven't you?"

"He didn't RSVP."

"Of course he didn't."

He took a drag and passed it to her again, watching the small movement of the corners of her mouth.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Hermione extinguished the remains of the cigarette on a stone. "I needed a bit of space. And maybe I deduced, you'd eventually need some as well."

Sherlock smirked and turned his head to the party, which was full-on. You could distinguish Molly dancing away with Tom, John and Mary still moving to their own tune.

"They don't seem to miss us."

"John and Mary will. They'll look for us and you, mister, and I, are going to be there for them."

"They might have another issue in mind right now."

"You told them, didn't you? About the baby?"

Sherlock looked at her surprised.

"I wasn't sure until today, and you everything but confirmed it. I was with Mary when she chose the wine. And she has been complaining about breast tenderness for the past four days. But of course, you do not know that."

"There is always something."

"Indeed." She started walking towards the entrance. "So, shall we get back inside and guess how many divorces would there be in the next months?"

Sherlock joined her, offering his arms. "That's hardly amusing if I cannot tell them."

"How is it that no one has punched you at this wedding yet?"

* * *

Despite his own reluctance, Sherlock had to admit he was having _fun_ that night. Mostly because Hermione had been keeping him entertained playing deductions with him between drinks. Greg had eventually joined them, his drunk-self being incredibly spot on. It was near three in the morning when John and Mary said their goodbyes to all of them, leaving for the private jet that would let them to their honey-moon – Mycroft's wedding gift. By then, few remained dancing, and Hermione suggested they had had enough mingling for an evening. She had gone to look for Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee, leaving Sherlock waiting at the door. When Hermione came back, she saw Janine discretely pocketing him a paper – her phone number, surely – when saying goodbye. She cleared her throat and Sherlock moved away from the bridesmaid, arching an eyebrow.

"Ajay left like an hour ago and Mrs Hudson made very good friends with one of John´s aunts and they both have ended the reserves of gin. I don't think we can move her without one of us ending covered in fluid." She said, scrunching her nose in disgust.

"She certainly can't hold her alcohol"

"Thank Mary for reserving some of the rooms for the guests." She looked at him. "Well, that makes you and me for the trip back, unless you want to stay as well."

Sherlock opened her coat and helped her with it. "I rather sleep in Baker Street."

After entering the car that would take them home, the atmosphere started to feel dense and loaded. Mycroft's driver was speeding through the motorway, the scarcely illuminated English landscape went by like a blur. Hermione looked away from the window.

"Are you happy you stayed?"

He gave a tiny noise of agreement.

"And you were fairly popular among the ladies." He turned his eyes, his body still flushed against the leather. "Or so it says the phone number in your pocket."

"Please" He put his index finger on his cheek while the rest of the hand was under his chin, his elbow resting on the door handle. "I wouldn't go for someone so obvious."

She snorted as if wondering if he ever would go for anyone. She could blame the blunt affirmations she was doing to the alcohol, but she was curious. She could also blame them to the frustration she felt now that she was painfully aware of how beautiful and attractive this man was and how little she could do.

"Jealous?"

"Not at all."

Sherlock turned this time to her, directly looking into her eyes. His eyes shone, maybe because of the champagne he rarely indulged on. But there was something else in them, something she could not decipher, but was making her blood boil and her insides twisting in a knot he would not take care of.

"What about you, Hermione?"

"Me?"

He hummed, telling her he was listening. She knew Sherlock understood how physical attraction worked. She knew he _knew_ , he was not unappealing to the female – and male – population. His mind was always on duty, observing. He surely must had noticed how everyone, and her included, had been ogling him.

"Well, there was this guy. He looked dashing."

"Was it the waiter? Janine left with him."

"Please, I wouldn't go for someone so obvious."

He smirked at his words being thrown back to him. He rested his head against the back of the car, looking outside again. His hands were resting on top of his legs, tapping, distracting her. She mimicked him, but she closed her eyes, falling into a light sleep. She opened her eyes when the car halted and the rumble from the engine stopped. The driver opened her door and she walked to the sidewalk, searching for her keys inside her clutch. She heard the car dashing away and Sherlock standing behind her.

"Was it the man who wore the purple tie?"

"What?" She looked at him over her shoulder

"The man with the purple tie. He was...handsome according to the standards. Also, gay."

She laughed. "What is it to you, anyway? Jealous?"

"Not at all."

She opened the door and left it open for him, while taking off her coat and hanging it while he did the same, revealing his long pale neck to her. Sherlock had turned to her, not making a movement to get to the stairs and call it a night. He did not seem nervous, or uncomfortable. Not even curious. His head slightly cocked to his left, his gaze never leaving her, almost like if he was waiting.

Could it be?

More importantly, would she dare?

Sherlock pursed his lips, wetting them, was everything she needed to decide.

"Well, if you must know," Hermione took the few steps that separated them, her hands finding and losing his tie, her eyes fixed on his. "He was wearing a perfectly fitted suit, the spitting image of a British gentleman. I'd say from Savile Row, Gieves & Hawkes probably, the one Mycroft favours. He was tall, probably towering over everyone else. Long hands, deep voice... The centre of attention once he decided to _stay_."

She could feel his breathing on her face, the faint smell of tobacco and expensive whiskey in it. The slight movement of his pupils was the only cue to know he had heard her, as he stood perfectly still. She laughed lowly and focused her eyes on the first buttons of his shirt. "'Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.' I might add, how ignorant he is when there is a woman wanting to rip his clothes off within an inch from him"

 **S** he saw how he blinked a couple of times as if his brain was trying to catch up with what it just heard. Two heartbeats after, Hermione withdraw her hand and took a step back. She had misread.

Before she could reach the stairs, a strong hand closed around her wrist.

A touch, a noise, a shiver.

She heard his step before she felt the heat radiating from him burning her back, his shirt almost brushing her exposed shoulder blades, his breath tickling her skin. He turned her around, gently, his long fingers releasing her and making their way up, barely touching her.

Arm, shoulder, neck.

The same hand slid to the back of her head, fingertips threading through her hair. She had to fight herself to stop the sigh that was stuck in her windpipes. In a different situation, she would have closed her eyes. But there was something in his that was magnetic. His lovely sea-blue eyes were nothing but a rim, their pupils wider with every second. She felt him moving closer to her, their bodies just teasing each other. He was above her, his lips millimetres apart.

She did not know who closed the small distance because ever since he had touched her she had shut down her mind and had left her limbic system take over. It was just a touch, a taste of something bigger, something better. He withdrew for a moment, inhaling deeply. His pupils seemed to cover the complete area of his irises. Somehow, they had transformed his face. He looked hungry, and just a glance at his lips was enough to trigger a storm.

Tongue, teeth, everything is fair in love and war.

His mouth on hers was now demanding, persistent. Her hands had moved to his shoulders and then buried in his hair, gently tugging, and making him grunt. His other hand had trapped her hip in a vicious grip, pressing her against him. In a split of a second, she found herself holstered against the wall, trapped by the man's body, making her buckle trying to get any kind of friction.

Oh, how wrong Mycroft, everyone, were. There was no way in hell that this man was a virgin.

She felt on fire, her magic travelling along her veins. They were devouring each other, angrily fighting for domination, separating when breathing was unavoidable, sharing gasps and low noises. His hand had travelled to her lower back, pressing her against him, feeling him hot and hard and gorgeous and fuck if she could think of anything else but undressing him. She stopped for a second and pushed Sherlock to have some distance between them, watching his dark and hooded eyes, breathing heavily. Before he could ask, she stepped out of her stilettos, grabbed the hem of her dress and started climbing the stairs. Midway, she noticed that he was not following her, so she turned her head slightly, looking at the detective. With his messy hair, the red lips, the hunger-filled stare, and the way the dress shirt and ivory waistcoat clung to his chest, the tie skewed, she thought she had never seen anything as sexy as this man.

"Aren't you coming?"

Long gone was the man that had shyly kissed her not even ten minutes ago. Hold and behold, this was Sherlock Holmes, the one and only. He was watching her as if he wanted to crack her and her secrets as if this was a wit battle and he had finally found a decent competitor. Because he knew, they were one and the same. Survivors, trapped lions that catered with death for a living, bombs ticking away. Outcasts who had found their niche.

He stood there, working on the first buttons of his shirt. He started climbing the stairs until their heads were at the same level, him a couple of steps down. He reached her hip with a tentative hand, sliding it over the curve of her waist, letting his hand wander its way up to the zipper on her dress, playing with it. She hooked her index fingers in his loop belt and brought him a step closer, making him tower above her. She could still feel his hand on her ribcage and his eyes looking down at her, but she kept her gaze on his chest. Her fingertips met the silky material of his shirt, and let them explore the plain of his abdomen, feeling the slight contraction of his muscles.

"How long has it been, Sherlock?"

His voice, hoarse and deep, went straight to Hermione's core. "Long enough."

She should not be doing this. This was not sex anymore. She certainly doubted if it would have been just that at some point. In her mind, this would have been a quick relief of tension, because damn if the man did not have that stupid self-sufficient grin that she wanted to fuck away of his face. But this, the intimacy, the light touches and looks and confessions…

"Are you... having second thoughts about this?"

He voiced the same concerns that were swimming in her head. But she wanted this, she wanted him. And she had never wanted anything with such a passion in all her life. Tomorrow he will be back to his automat self, and she will probably berate herself for having been such a fool. But heavens above, she _wanted him._

Her voice was lost somewhere between the overwhelming lust and fear. She let her right hand slide over his neck, thumb brushing over his lips, convening everything she wanted to say, without words. He smirked, that Sherlock trademarked smirk that made everything felt _right_. Despite how out of character this might feel, he was still _him._

His mouth crashed down her lips, setting a brutal pace. Neither of them were being cautious anymore, the small hall filled with the small moans that were drowned in the other's lips. She did not even realize that she had let go of her heels and that her hands had flown to his trousers, tugging his shirt out of them. His hands had travelled down her thighs, where he, with agonizingly slow movements, started to raise the skirt of the dress. He lifted her then, guiding her legs around his hips. His palms went up her thighs, revelling in their smoothness until arriving at the soft curve of her butt, finding no impediment in the form of underwear. He let a pained growled and move his mouth to her neck, where he bit in the point under her ear. Hermione whimpered and made an involuntary movement of her hips, that were dangerously close to his now throbbing erection. He climbed the few steps that were left to the upstairs hall, feeling how her hands started unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Entering the kitchen, he closed the door by pushing them both to it, Hermione's back first. Her wine nails that had been busy with his buttons where now scrapping the skin available, leaving red angry marks all the way from his pectorals to the band of his trousers, only to gain her a nip in her lips. He spun around and dropped her unceremoniously on the table they had fought so long and hard about. He slowed down his kisses, until they were just mere touches, while he shrugged off the shirt and tie, while her hands caressed the shoulders that were left uncovered. She marvelled at the lean body beneath the clothes, all hard planes and taut muscles. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked the magnificent view he had. Hermione, that had just opened her eyes, was flushed everywhere, her skin glowing from the thin layer of sweat that was starting to cover them. Her dress gathered around her tights.

Sherlock knew he could just rip off his clothes and have her there, on the table, making her moan in the way he would get addicted to. Because he will get addicted to them, to _her_. Mycroft was right, he did have an addictive personality. And he loved to get addicted to dangerous things: cocaine, morphine, heroin, MI-7 agents with magical powers. He brushed her hair over her shoulder, seeing how she let her eyelids fall shut and gave a small sigh, content. His hand went down her left arm, lingering on the spot in her forearm he knew should not be unscarred.

"It's hideous, Sherlock." She muttered, opening her eyes.

"I have hundreds."

"Yours healed"

"So?"

She looked at him, and he felt it: the sudden change in the environment, the rush of energy that emanated from her, and the pads of his fingers where touching ragged skin where before there was nothing. The magic around him, although he could not describe it, left him dizzy, like if it was playing on top of his skin. It was electrifying, it was powerful, and it was her. He let himself fall to his knees, his lips travelling along her arm, his hands on her knees, playing with the bunch of fabric that was there.

Whatever she might have been thinking about her scars slipped through the cracks of her mind when she saw him there, on his knees and between hers, with his strong hands just centimetres away from her centre. She had to strain herself from moving her hips forward, but he seemed to have caught her intentions because he started drawing the skirt further up, slowly. Without removing his eyes from hers, his teeth grazed the inner thigh, which drew a long moan from the woman. At the same time, he let one of his hands slip underneath the fabric, tracing a path from the knee to end in the thin mat in the apex of her thighs. She closed her eyes, the soft noises hitching an octave higher while she could not suppress a thrust this time. She looked down at him when she felt the lack of his lips, and he had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and fast.

"Sherlock…"

All his resolve seemed to disappear when his name came out her lips. His hands gripped the skirt and pushed it up to her waist. Before she could protest, he grabbed the back of her knees and scooped her over the edge of the table, opening her for him. The soft pink of her, surrounded by a thin mat of brown hair, was glistening. The scent was maddening, and without thinking he sank on her, tasting. He planted small kisses, trying, experimenting, taking mental notes. Grazing her clitoris with his teeth made her quiver. A long stroke with the tongue meant moans. Quick ones made her tug his hair. His licks and nips were faster, trying to commit to memory all those sounds and smells for the future. He brought one finger under his mouth and slowly, inserted in her, making her gasp.

"Fuck Sherlock. Faster"

He smiled against her, feeling how her hips pistoned to get more friction with him. He added another finger and started moving, caressing. Her moans got louder, and Sherlock added another finger, stretching her as a preparation of what was about to come. Her walls started contracting, gripping his fingers with sheer force. She felt the rumble of his moan around her, as he incremented the speed of his fingers. Hermione was moving faster and faster, the crest of her pelvic bones digging into the table, probably leaving bruises. She could not care less. The world had reduced to a table and the man between her legs driving her insane. With one strong bite from him, she knew she was done for. Her mouth open in a silent cry, while she felt the few slow contractions before one of the most powerful orgasms she had experienced.

He did not stop, though.

He continued, pushing her to climb again the mountain she had just fall from. She could feel it. It was there, building at a pace that was going to leave her useless. Not even a minute after her first orgasm the second came crashing with a force that made her collapse on the table, he sweaty skin thanking the contact with the cool surface. She felt his fingers coming off her and she opened her eyes to see Sherlock standing up in all his glory. He offered her a hand that she took and straighten herself. She looked at his eyes, breathing heavily, wetting her lips. He went down and kissed her, making her moan to her own taste. He lifted her as if she were a bride, and carried to his old room, leaving her on the floor.

He took his time travelling down her neck, while his hand unzipped her dress letting it puddle on the floor. Taking a couple of steps back, Sherlock looked at her, naked. She was really a marvellous human being. Her hands went to her hair, letting the bobby pins of her braid fall to the ground. Her breast tensed at the movement, and he could not do anything else but admire. Her shapely legs, the small tattoos on her body, the small curve around her belly probably due to Mrs Hudson's cooking. He had never been a holy man, he had never believed in anything but crude facts and biology. But seeing how her white skin almost shone under the moonlight, how her curly hair cascaded around her shoulders, he thought that maybe she was becoming the sole thing he would ever believe in. She approached him and started kissing his neck while her hand fell to the trousers, pushing them down, together with his pants, while he merely threw his head back to make room for her, his hands touching everywhere he could. He hissed at the feel of hair on him. He clumsily tried to kick his shoes, earning him a very heartily laugh from her, and despite the ridiculous of the situation, he smiled. He reached down and kissed her, still feeling his smile and hers together. But with another step their naked bodies touched for the first time and the smiles were substituted by sharps intakes of breath and pained moan, turning the kiss in a frantic fight. Because this was it, this was the last straw. His hand pushing her flat against him, his tip pressing hot in her stomach, chest against chest, sweat mingling together. He pushed them both to the bed, falling into a mess of limbs and wandering hands. Instinctively, she fastened her legs around his torso, and he felt the wetness, the heat.

Right then, the world became a bed.

She moved her hips, the friction letting him enter her an inch, and he stooped kissing her because the overstimulation was killing him. She gave an open-mouthed kiss to his neck while she pushed him a bit deeper, and he continued until he was seated inside of her. He started counting the commuting possibilities from Brighton to Edinburgh to stop himself from coming there and then. He was awfully aware of being surrounded by her, within her, with her legs on his hips, her hands on his back, and her lips on his neck. His senses were overloading, his ever-working brain trying to focus on everything at the same time. She tried to star moving, but he stopped her with one of his hands on her hips, his stare a mixture of pain and pleasure, his voice low and warning.

"Don't move."

Her nails dug into the skin of his back and he moaned. He started then, withdrawing completely before entering again, earning him one of those torturing groans. Hermione threw her head back with the second thrust, and Sherlock seized the opportunity to drag his lips from the hollow of her throat to the shell of her ear. She felt every slow and strong thrust filling her, her head heady with his scent.

"Do you have any idea of what you do to me?" His hips went faster with every word he muttered. "How difficult it is for me to think when you are around? To work when you are working with me." His voice had always had this effect on her, but hearing it, just for her, with the darker edge of someone about to lose control, was the most erotic things she could imagine. She moaned loudly when the first cues of her orgasm started, and Sherlock replied with one of his own. "Fuck…"

She opened her eyes and saw Sherlock's furrowed brow, sweat sliding from his hairline. He was so transparent when vulnerable. He was fighting himself to not to disappoint her, and she has started to think that was his normal stance. She bit his neck and in the moment of weakness it provoked, she managed to turn them both around. He looked at her, and she stopped for a second, just admiring him from this position. With him now under her mercy, _the_ Sherlock Holmes about to become a mess under her, to lose all those masks of indifference and superiority… She had never felt so powerful. Without leaving his eyes, she waved her hips tentatively, and Sherlock moaned closing his eyes. She felt his hands on her, urging her to move quicker. She ran her hands over his abs and using them to support her, while Sherlock's digits and nails dug on the end of her back.

Nothing he had ever tasted had left him with the mind as blank as this. All he could think was her, and all he could feel were the spams that were threatening to tip him over the edge. Her movements now sharp and precise, purposeful. He felt her hair cascade around him, her lips ghosting above his.

"Come for me, Mr Holmes."

He felt his body tensing and his eyes going to the back of his head as he let himself drown in his own orgasm. She kissed along his neck, letting him come undone, while still lazily rocking her hips. His hands made their way up from her spine, milking the aftershocks. They looked at each other, and she let herself fall beside him, gazing the ceiling, but with one of the hand outstretched in between them. Giving him space to decide whether he wanted to stay or not. He looked at her, and decided in a split of a second

* * *

Sherlock was awake.

However, his mind was uncharacteristically quiet.

One hand was at the back of his head, cushioning under his mat of hair. The other was secured over Hermione's bare shoulder, relishing on the velvety tact of her skin. Her naked form was tucked to his left side, legs intertwined with his and right arm thrown over his torso.

He felt the anxiety creeping over him, threatening to suffocate him.

They had to talk.

Sherlock knew he was not good at people in general. But he did not know what to make of this, whatever this had been. The last time he had slept with someone, Irene had been gone before they had caught their breaths. They absolutely did not trust each other, and he would not have fallen sleep with her.

But Hermione had just put her head on his chest, without a care in the world. And he did not know what to do with such a trust. Because he would fail her. He always ended up failing everyone. He had lied to the one person that had appreciated him with all his flaws. He had been incapable of having a normal relationship with his family. He had gone to stupid lengths for a case, for escaping boredom. How could he not fail something with so many social constructs and unwritten rules as a romantic relationship?

He would betray her trust. She would hate him.

And he preferred not to see that.

* * *

So… Let's bet. What do you think happens in the next chapter?

Next: His Last Vow Act I. It will probably take a while for me to publish because HLV and season 4 are very intertwined (and let's be honest, understanding Mycroft is very difficult). I'll strive to publish it before the end of the month, at least the first chapter.

Beth


	15. His Last Vow, Act I

Hello all! Here is the first part of HLV. As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed or reviewed the last chapter. I am aware that there were some issues with the email updates, so if you missed the last chapter, now is the time to go and read it!

 **Disclaimer** : All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **His last vow: Act I, Introduction**

The underground hallways of St Bart's were cold and empty as Hermione roamed them on her way to the pathology lab. With every step she took, she had conflicting thoughts about turning her heels around and leave or letting her feet carry her to where John was waiting for her. When she had received his message – just an address and a succinct 'now' - she had almost ignored it. Because it would not take a genius to figure why he would be at Bart's on a Friday, barely arrived from his honeymoon.

Everything was about Sherlock.

She arrived at the fire-safe door, voices seeping from the other side. Taking a deep breath, she entered, making everyone turned their heads to her.

"We are all. Finally."

Although her attention was first drawn to John, visibly mad with his hands on his hips, her eyes instinctively looked for Sherlock. He was resting against one of the lab benches and had raised his head from between his slouching shoulders, looking at her with a mixture of surprise and tiredness. Sherlock was unkempt, almost dirty. Dressed in rags instead of his ever-present suit, the track pants and the sweatshirt hanged loosely around his frame, making him look painfully thin. His usually luscious curls were matted and greasy with sweat, his chin and jaw sporting a thin scruff. Not only was his appearance uncharacteristic of him, but also his eyes, red, slightly unfocused, with bags under them.

So that was why they were there.

Someone had been playing with chemicals again.

She inhaled deeply and turned her head away from him. It was not her problem.

She smiled at Mary, who was bandaging someone who they had probably dug out of the same garbage dump they had found Sherlock in. Besides her, a kid, no older than sixteen, completed the junkie triad. John was still pacing around the room. Molly had a pot of yellow fluid and was preparing different test tubes.

"Molly is going to analyse Sherlock's piss."

Hermione crossed her arms and leaned into one of the counters, briefly looking at the pathologist.

"I am not sure if Molly needs an audience for that."

John bit his lower lip. Hermione made a small move with her head, prompting him to say whatever he wanted to. She saw through the corner of her eye how Sherlock was never taken his eyes away from her, waiting for her reaction.

"Why did not you tell us he was acting strange?"

"I am no one's sitter, John. And I am certainly not monitoring Sherlock bloody Holmes."

"You sure must have noticed something! You share a house!"

Sherlock beat her to the answer "No we don't, John."

"What?" Everyone looked between the two of them. She had not moved and was still with her gaze fixed on John, while Sherlock gave them his back resting again on the bench.

"Well, my duty there is complete, so I moved out roughly three weeks ago. I should have done it before, honestly."

 _When Hermione woke up the next morning, she found the other side of the bed empty and cold. She borrowed her head on the pillow, where traces of his smell still lingered and sighed. This should not surprise her. Despite the looks, the caresses, the intimacy… At the end, it had been just sex. Whatever she thought she had seen in his eyes or his actions, it had been just a by-product of the alcohol level in their systems. And while she told herself she had not held any expectations, it did not hurt any less._

 _But it was what it was._

 _The day passed by without a sign from Sherlock. Just as the next day, and the one after that. She had sat in front of her phone for what could have been an hour, deciding if she should call Mycroft to let him know that his brother was…Well, not in Baker Street. When she was about to dial, she had thrown her phone onto John's chair. Sherlock's whereabouts were not hers to be concern about._

 _By Wednesday, it had already been three days since the last time Sherlock had step a foot in the house, and the situation was starting to wear her down. She had planned to have a night in, and try to get her thoughts in order. She had run a bath, the tiles reflecting the golden hue from the candles, the steam and dim light creating the atmosphere of relaxation she so desperately needed. She had left her body melt inside the scented warm water, her hand dangling outside the tub with a half filled glass of wine. The gentle sounds of Beethoven's moonlight sonata reverberated inside the bathroom while she rested her head on a towel, closing her eyes. She did not hear the main door being opened and the characteristics steps of someone skipping one, nor that same someone entering the bathroom._

 _"I don't do this"_

 _She opened her eyes and the glass slipped from her hand, reaching the floor and breaking into a thousand pieces. In front of her, still in the shadows of the hallway, was Sherlock, in his coat and scarf._

 _"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" She made a movement with her hand and the glass fixed itself, and the ceiling lamps coming to life. "You don't do what, getting into some else's bathroom? Cheers, I'd give you a gold star but I don't exactly have pockets right now."_

 _He was looking at her but most definitely not actually seeing her. His face was tight in concentration. He had prepared his intervention, obviously, and he had determined to see it through the end. He most likely had planned her answers too._

 _"I don't do this... thing, with people."_

 _"Relationship, Sherlock, the word is a relationship." She sighed and stood up, naked, and reached for her bathrobe. She did not even bother to look at him while doing so. Whatever he might think or feel upon seeing her bare body could not be less important now. She secured the belt around her and crossed her arms. "Who talked about a relationship? I hardly think you know how to stand someone for more than two hours straight. I know how you are Sherlock, and I understand. It was sex, just sex. Why don't you erase it from your brain, like you do with the things that hold no interest to you. "_

 _'_ _Well, Hermione' she thought 'that sounded more wounded that what you were supposed to be.'_

 _"Do you think I haven't tried?" Sherlock's stare was reaching a point of almost pain, his hands on his hips. "I have tried. I spend almost 24 hours in my mind palace, but you were everywhere. Every room I went into, you were there. I cannot forget the way you feel, the way you sound, the way you smell. You are a virus that has hijacked the control room in here." He pointed to his head, buffing, intently looking at her. Hermione stepped out of the tub and came closer to him_

 _"_ _Sherlock, feelings are not a bad thing."_

 _He let go a disdained laugh. "They are not feelings, Hermione."_

 _She was there, waiting for him to deliver the last blow that she knew was coming. She had never been on the other side of this Sherlock, but she had seen it enough time to recognize it. But she could not move. She had put on her best poker face, but she knew, he was the only one who can see past it._

 _"_ _Oh, I see." He looked at her, his face was contorted in an almost cruel scorn. "You have made all this charade that somehow 'love' is involved in this, Hermione, but it is not. You are just an addiction, therefore, a weakness. I cannot afford weakness."_

 _They were both rooted in their places. What to answer to that? She let out a shaky breath. With the familiar sting of unshed tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, she opened the door that led to her room._

 _She said nothing, he did not stop her._

 _She rested herself against the door, two lonely tears finally running along her cheeks, and furiously she wiped them. 'Get yourself together, Hermione'. While she took her suitcase from the wardrobe where she had stored it two years ago, she spared a couple of thought about Sherlock. He was right. Whatever this had been, was not love, was nothing like that despite the dull pain ricocheting through her body. It had been a delusion, a mirror image from their best friends' lives. It was not for them._

"I am sure Sherlock appreciates having his room back, and all the freedom to trash the place to his pleasure." Despite her nonchalant answer, the tension could be felt in the air. "So, you called me in for… questioning?"

John cleared his throat, clearly, his anger had been tampered down by the news. "Well, I found Sherlock in a crack den. We thought you might have…erm… know something."

"Figures. I don't even know why you have bothered of bringing him here, look at him. You don't need an analysis to know he is off his tits." She rearranged her coat and took her phone out, indifferently checking her notifications while talking. "Anyway, I am sorry, I have no time for taking care of a junkie. Good luck with him."

* * *

Hermione was still replaying the conversation in her head when she exited the hospital. She left herself to be carried with the multitude towards the tube station, the speed of the herd matching that of her mind. The ideas came and went like a wind-whirl. Why would Sherlock go back to hard drugs? Cigarettes were one thing, especially boredom started to hound him. The shadow of doubt clouded her mind. Was what happened between them the cause? Was it John's absences?

She halted halfway to the tube station, making a man crashing with her, but she paid no attention. There was something, something staring right on her face and she could not see it. Against her best instincts, she turned around and run to the edge of the sidewalk. She hailed a cab and gave him the Watson's address.

She had to wait half an hour until Mary's car turned the corner and parked in front of the house. Mary said nothing but threw her the keys, while going to her neighbour with her kid. Hermione opened the door and went straight to the kitchen, turning on the kettle, and heard Mary when she was fixing two green teas.

"Poor Kate, her son will be the death of her." Mary sat down at the table.

Hermione handed her the tea. "I am guessing John's is on sitting duty."

"Mmm." They sipped in silence, but Mary's eyes were on her. "So, what happened?"

"Why do you think something happened?"

"Hermione, please, let's fast-forward all the small talk of me telling you not to insult my intelligence and you dodging my questions." Hermione left the mug on the table and sighed. "Is it what I think it is even if it sounds completely ridiculous."

"If you are thinking about sex, yes, it was sex." Mary's eyes doubled the size and her mouth open but Hermione cut her with a hand sign. "Before you subject me to a third degree: It was the night of your wedding, he disappeared, then he came back, he said... Well, nothing I should not have seen coming, honestly."

Mary was quiet. "Then why are you this angry?" Hermione shrugged because she did not want to entertain the possibility of… feelings, in all the ordeal.

"In other situation, I'd be mad at you for not telling me. This is the best piece of gossip of my life." Hermione smiled a bit. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Mary, you were on your honeymoon! I was not about to call you because someone ditched me after sex. It was not the first time and maybe not the last one."

"But this is was not any sex, was it?" Hermione sometimes wondered at what point of history Mary had gained that deep knowledge about her. Her friend took her hand over the table. "I am always here for you, I don't like to think that you'll start keeping me in dark because I am married."

Hermione squeezed the hand. "It's not that, it's just…As you said, this situation is fucked up. It's confusing, and… I am only thinking how weird things will be from now on." Hermione released her hand and took her mug again. "So, what happened when I left?"

"Well, it got interesting. Sherlock said it was for a case."

"What case?"

"Dunno. But then he said his drug addiction might get to the newspaper. I guess that makes sense in his head."

"That's odd…"

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

She turned around on the small step she was on, her arms still deep inside one of the cupboards. Sherlock had appeared in the middle of the kitchen, now fresh and clean and looking again like himself instead of one of his homeless temps.

"You really need to stop sneaking behind people's back." She stepped down with the coffee-maker in her hand. "Trying to have a coffee. It took me ages to find everything." She left the coffee maker on the table and crossed her arms.

"What?"

"What is going on, Sherlock?" He sighed and took his coat off with his scarf, leaving them on the chair. "Mary said you said you were undercover, and you are obviously under opioids. What was finally? Heroin?"

"I am a user, not an addict."

"I know. Heroin is way less addictive than alcohol or nicotine."

"You called me a junkie."

"Why does it matter?" She came to him, when a faint scent, barely there, reached her nose. She sniffed him, but Sherlock took a step back, sitting in his chair. "You smell funny."

"My cases are private."

She looked at him and then turned towards the door. "Fine, whatever."

"Wait." Sherlock raised his voice. "Sit down." Hermione made a noise with her throat. "Please."

She held his gaze for a couple of seconds, before taking a chair and putting in where John's chair should have been. "What do you know about Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

"He is a media tycoon; he owns several tabloids, which have hogged the best part of the sensationalist headlines in the past year…" He looked at her with an arched eyebrow. "But that's not what you are asking me."

He reclined in his chair, his legs crossed.

"How much do you know already?"

"He is a protégée of the Government, and by Government I mean Mycroft. He has been in different enquiries regarding his ties to the Establishment."

She hummed. "Mycroft refers to him as a necessary evil. His manipulation of the media is sometimes useful to sway the public opinion. Personally, I find those tools, and him, disgusting. I´ve only been in his presence one, three or four years ago. He struck me as a person with the unique ability to turn around every word he speaks and make them… Dirty, somehow."

"Indeed he does…" He stapled his fingers together in front of him. "Do you know Lady Smallwood?"

"Everyone knows her. She is part of the Home Office, undisclosed position, priority Ultra, like your brother. She is…" She frowned and Sherlock smirked at her. He enjoyed watching people fitting the pieces together. "…actually leading the enquiry about Magnussen as far as my knowledge goes."

"She hired me for retrieving some information Magnussen has on her husband. And he was here, this morning. He has said letters in his office. He seemed ready to make a deal."

She stood up, the information she just got trying to find their place in the big picture. Sherlock was looking at her, while she walked around the room.

"One of the reasons we protect Magnussen is because he never does any substantial harm to anyone of importance. But Lady Smallwood is not a civilian, she could have gone to Mycroft, but she came to you instead…" She paused for a moment. "What's he doing anyway? Is he trying to swing the vote, cancel the enquiry? She cannot do that; there are others in the enquiry."

"He is a narcissist. He doesn't only have power. He loves to ascertain it."

They stayed for a moment in silence.

"So how are you planning on getting those letters?"

"I have my means."

She squinted at him. He was still proudly sitting in his chair as a damn king, but he was avoiding her eyes. He was hiding something. She took a quick look at the room. It had seemed different from the exact moment she had entered, and not just because John's chair not being there. Everything seemed… Cleaner. There was even a vase with fresh flowers on the window-sill. And that scent, that she had sure smelled before. Without saying anything, she went to the bathroom, hearing Sherlock stood up behind her. On the small cabinet by the tub, beside Sherlock's expensive hair products, were two other bottles, both advertised for long, curly hair. She turned to Sherlock, who was blocking the door to his room, but she was faster and opened the bathroom door. There, in the bedroom, the smell was stronger. Not Lancôme. Versace.

"Out."

She laughed and turned to him.

"So that's how you are planning on doing it."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Please Sherlock, do not do that, it's unbecoming of you. Janine. Mary´s maid of honour. She is Magnussen´s PA." Even if he tried to suppress it, she could see he was impressed. "You are not the only one that does a background check on people. I am a secret agent, call it an occupational hazard."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "Well, you finally put the phone number to good use. Very painful going on dates and faking you were a normal person? Or does she know you are using her?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Black."

"Why would I be? Just wondering if this time someone you are using does know they are being used."

She got past him, ignoring the strange look in Sherlock's eyes, but when she was about to reach the sitting room, she turned. "Just a piece of warning. I have never been on the losing side from Mycroft. And Magnussen is indeed a very powerful man."

"I am not afraid of either."

"Just saying, the crossfire is not a good place to be."

Before she left the room, she addressed him again. "Good luck with your addictions, Sherlock."

* * *

"Move it, Jackson! The rain is not the worst thing that can happen to you on a mission."

The agent beside her whistled in astonishment. She ignored him, jotting down the times of the last runs. It has already been a miserable, taxing day, and the evening was not looking any better. It was pitch dark when they started the training, the area only illuminated by the focal light surrounding the perimeter. Even under the canopy, where the rain could not reach them, the cold of the training camp was bone shattering, and outside, the puddles that were slowing down the trainees. Her attention was drawn to the sound of a car, and a man shouting from the open window. The cadet jumped out of the pilot seat and ran towards her.

"Agent Black!" He said, short of breath. "They need you in the main building, madam."

"We have scheduled the end of the session in about half an hour. Then Agent Roberts and I would take the recruits back to the facility."

"But Madam…"

"Have you forgotten how to obey a direct order from a superior, Cadet Parker?"

"No madam. Captain John Watson called madam, and he demands to speak to you. He says it's urgent."

Hermione´s heart started skipped a beat when she heard Captain Watson. John never pulled out rank if he could avoid it. She looked over to her fellow agent, who gave her a nod.

"You go, Black. I have this. "

She ran towards the car, raining drenching her workout clothes and opened the co-pilot door while Parker started the engine. During the three miles to the main building, she started feeling the worry creeping her throat. When the car started coming to a halt, she jumped off the car and sprinted towards the door, sweeping her identification to open it. Hermione went straight to the communication room, where a very distressed young cadet was berating a hell of a reprimand on the other side of the line. She took the phone from him and dismissed him, closing the door.

"John?"

"For fuck's sake, Hermione. Where the hell are you?" John's voice was quick and loud but was croaking. "I've left you a thousand messages on your phone. I had to call Mycroft's PA to know where to call."

"I am at a training camp in the middle of nowhere, Mycroft's orders."

"Well, he has a fucking perfect timing that cock." She heard a deep sigh on the other side and distant voiceover through speakers. "Hermione, Sherlock has been shot."

"What? What happened? Is he alright? Where is he?"

"He is at Bart's. He's in surgery."

She sat in one of the chairs, her hand diving through her hair. "And?"

"He came in cardiorespiratory arrest. During the first hour, they had lost him once. And…" She heard him shallow, and when he continued, his voice was shaking. "I haven't heard from them since."

"I'll…I'll be there as soon as I can, John. Wait for me. St Bart's you said?"

She hanged and took everything from her locker and took her car from the front lane, weighing her possibilities. The facility was MI-6 and had magic restrictions. The nearest village was at least an hour away, and going back to London by car was wasting time. And she could not leave an official vehicle in the middle of the road, either. She turned the stirring wheel, and the car went into a damp, out of the magic exclusion area of the base. She stopped the car and came out, taking her wand into her hand. She ripped the plates off, took all the identifications from the car, and hid them in her handbag. She walked a hundred feet away under the rain and checked she was alone. Wand in hand, she pointed to the car.

"Confringo"

The car burst into pieces, the sound echoing around the silence of the night, and the pouring rain suffocating the small fires around the metal. She took her phone and looked for nearby alleyways around the hospital. Luckily, the darkness will provide her with another layer of security. She found a secluded loading and unloading area within the terms of the hospital and pictured the place the images were showing.

When she opened her eyes, she was at the back of some boxes that she had to sort to get out of the alley. She went into the hospital, and she saw how people eyed her drenched clothes and smeared mascara.

"Hello Miss, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I am looking for Sherlock Holmes, he is in surgery."

"Hermione!"

She looked up, and she saw John on the upper floor. She climbed the stairs to get into a tight embrace with John. She did not notice she was shaking until she felt the strong, firm body of John holding her, not minding that she was soaking wet. Now that she saw him, she started crying.

"It's alright; it's alright. He pulled through. He is fine; he's going to be fine."

He separated from her and smiled at her. She returned the smile.

"Family of William Holmes?"

John was the first to react to the name and immediately went to the doctor and shook his hand. The doctor opened the room and prompted them to enter. On the bed, Sherlock was connected to several machines; the only sound was the pacemaker monitoring his vitals. It sounded like a song, a steady beeping sound that meant he was alive with every beat of it. She came closer to the bed, barely registering the conversation between the doctor and John, the words "recovery", "bed-rest" and "waking up" reaching her ears, but without real meaning. It was remarkable how peaceful he seemed to be, despite the paleness of his skin, the veins in his arms a deep blue against the white of the flesh. She brushed some hair covering his eyes.

She was so enraptured in the moment, basking in the relief she was feeling, that she had not heard the doctor leaving. John cleared his throat, and she took away her hand, but he had already seen it and was now looking at her as if he just discovered a secret.

"The doctor said we have five minutes; he needs to rest."

"Sure."

"Do you want me to… Leave you alone?"

Hermione shook her head. Sherlock stirred and mumbled something, and both of them looked at him.

"Sherlock?"

Hermione brought her head close to his, and he touched her hand. John did the same.

"M…Ma…Mary."

John smiled a bit and warned Hermione he was going to call the doctor, but she was not listening. In a second, several pictures flashed through her mind, the puzzle building itself.

Mary, receiving a coded text.

The telegram at the wedding.

Mycroft, warning Sherlock not to get involved.

Sherlock, using his last forces after being shot, to say Mary's name.

John came back and the doctor, accompanied by a nurse, invited them to leave the room. John sat down, still with a smile on his face, but it faltered when she saw her pacing before taking her coat.

"Where are you going?"

"I… I need to talk with Mycroft. He needs to know. "

"What makes you think he doesn't know?"

"Well, I need to do it anyway." She snapped back. She took a breath. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Sure… I'll try to call Mary. I don't know where she is; I think she was out with Cath today."

She left without answering him. If she was right, and she usually was, Mary's situation was about to get very complicated. And she would be the first one in line for it.

* * *

Hello there! This is the first chapter! We have two more to go to complete HLV, and the next chapters are going to be around 5000-6000 words long, I think the longest chapters so far.

Also, I hope the characters, their actions and words make sense. It had taken me a while to understand why things happened how they did and why. If there's something that you'd like to tell me or exchange opinions, you can always leave a review or DM me :)

Beth


	16. His Last Vow, Act II: Conflit

Hello all! Here is the second chapter of His Last Vow. A couple of considerations:

The first is that a great deal of how amazing this chapter turned out is thanks to my new beta nightgigjo. She has been wonderful and I am so excited to share our work with all of you. Also, and after some discussion, we have decided that it made more sense to split the remaining of HLV into 3 smaller chapters instead of two. That's right! After this one, we have two more chapters. Then, this story will go on hiatus until I am a bit more advanced with Season 4.

As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed or reviewed the last chapter.

 **Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 16: His Last Vow Act II, Conflict.**

The streetlights on both sides of number 10 flickered barely moments before Wilder heard the bell from the private door. From his desk, he could see the feed from the rear CCTV camera, streaming a petite figure standing directly in front of the screen. He gestured to the steward, prompting him to head for the long hallway leading to the back of the building. At the end, a reinforced door separated him from the visitor.

Raising his knuckles, the young man knocked thrice and waited. The answer, the agreed string of raps and silences, followed.

Once the door opened, Hermione stood inside and gave the man an acknowledging nod. Then, she walked through the secret small corridors that lead to an inconspicuous wooden door. On the other side was a room, completely in darkness but for the reddish glow coming from the lamps. The only occupant sat in a classy armchair facing the opposite wall, his head visible over the backrest. Despite the sound of the door closing, the figure made no indication he had heard her. His only movements were those of the half-empty tumbler dangling from his fingers. When Hermione went to the small table close by, Mycroft's unmistakable voice filled the room.

"His surgeon sent me the update. Little brother has been very, very lucky."

Hermione took the bottle of Ogden and a glass and poured the amber liquid while she walked to the other chair. She brought the glass to her lips, watching how Mycroft agitated his drink. Her eyes searched Mycroft's over the rim, in silence.

"I told him not to go after Magnussen."

She laughed dryly at his statement. "Reverse psychology, Mycroft. He rarely listens to your orders, I thought you knew him better than that."

"Mmm." He drank, and then added dispassionately. "Magnussen is not pressing charges for breaking and entering."

"That's because he has the upper hand now. That's his M.O. But that's not what I'm here for." She downed her drink and rested her chin on her hand.

Mycroft did not answer immediately. Instead, he seemed to meditate carefully how to respond to her unspoken question. "I told you once when you came for help." Hermione kept her gaze on him. "Even after retirement, mercenaries have a considerable number of enemies."

Hermione knew that very well. But even in the middle of her disappointment and worriedness, she still knew Mary. Reverting to her assassin past-self was not something Mary would have done if not under extreme circumstances. Not without having explored every other possibility. When Hermione finally talked, her voice was low and hoarse. "She came to see you, didn't she? After Sherlock came back."

Mycroft sighed, tapping his fingers on his glass. "She had received, as you know, a code. She did not know who was it from, but it had to be someone with certain power and knowledge, and that knew what she was. She then told me about the veiled threat during the wedding, from someone called 'CAM'. She and I — and you, I guess now — we came to the same conclusion. I am assuming she never told you any of this." Hermione said nothing and he continued. "I told her the same thing I told Sherlock. Magnussen is too valuable of an asset as to prosecute him. So I guess she took the problem into her own hands. Sherlock just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You should have told me, Mycroft."

"She warned me against it."

"Since when do you take orders from anyone?"

"Since that someone is a well-trained assassin with unique abilities of infiltration!"

"Never took you for a coward." Hermione almost spat those word. She stood up and paced to the window, watching the drops racing along the glass. Behind her, Mycroft made no noise, only the eventual clank sound of the tumbler against the polished wood. She looked at the man's reflection.

"So what's his next move?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, inhaling. "Well, I am afraid Lord Smallwood has very difficult times ahead. Someone has to pay for Sherlock's boldness, and in this case, that person is Tobias Smallwood."

She nodded slowly and turned around, her arms crossed over her chest. The man straightened himself on his seat, his hands grasping the end of the armrests.

"You have questions."

"Of course I do, Mycroft. How has Magnussen come to know about her?"

"Mary has quite a few skeletons in her closet, as they say. And Magnussen is a very resourceful man."

"Yes, but…" Hermione rushed to the chair and sat in front of Mycroft, resting her elbows on her knees. "Why would a media mogul — someone who has lunch dates with Prime Ministers and meets with part of the royalty for tea — why would someone like that target her? What for, what did he want?"

Mycroft reclined in his seat and crossed his legs, just like his brother did. "Any theories?"

Hermione took a couple of seconds to gather her thoughts. "Mary going rogue was Magnussen's miscalculation. He thought she would tell Sherlock and let him handle it. But she did not. That was his problem. The Smallwoods are just collateral."

"Very sound conclusion, Hermione. One I had reached myself."

But Mary was still the key in all of this. That idea had become the pivoting piece of her mind map about the Magnussen conundrum. The bigger picture had started to become clearer, the gaps in the jigsaw fewer and fewer. Mycroft must have seen something in her gaze because he moved uncomfortably.

"Lady Smallwood did not contact you, and she didn't even try to use private contractors. She instead settled for a detective, with dubious means I'll grant you that, but not an assassin." She got up and started walking again, this time around Mycroft's chair, and put a hand next to his head. "But someone wanted Magnussen dead. Some skeleton, someone with power, and certain diplomatic status enough to access classified information. Someone who knew that Mary was an assassin. Moreover, that person knew how badly she wanted those secrets to be hidden, and therefore, could be groomed to do the dirty work. And that person, also, would use any means necessary, because he wanted… No, needed Magnussen dead."

Hermione's eyebrow twitched as she realized the significance of what she had just said. Eliminate the impossible, came her unbidden thoughts, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. There was only one person she knew who had the means, the ability, and the influence to execute this kind of plan.

Half horrified, she turned her scrutiny on the man before her. "How could you?"

Mycroft got up and faced her, separated by the seat. "Careful, Hermione."

"You leaked them! You left them for him to find, or you delivered them somehow. But they came from you. What happened is exactly what you wanted!" A dry laugh escaped from her. "Of course now everything makes sense! How couldn't I see it? You weren't protecting Magnussen, you were executing him."

Mycroft did not say anything, and she continued. " Now tell me Mycroft, why now?"

"He had too much power. He had dared to blackmail high ranks. He needed to be eliminated and the British Government couldn't be blamed for it."

"That's bullshit." The glass on the table cracked. Mycroft didn't even flinch, nor did she. "Why are you so afraid of Magnussen? What does he have on you? And why would you use Mary? Didn't you think about Sherlock or me on this?"

He went quiet, but his eyes transformed into something different, feral and intimidating."You don't know the lengths I have gone to ensure Sherlock's safety, and yours, and protect this country." Mycroft circled the armchair and came closer to Hermione, his towering height barely a few inches from her. "I couldn't care less about what is in store for Mary, or John, or whoever stands in the way of me doing my duty. If Mary Morstan is the price I have to pay for the country's protection, or Sherlock's, that is a cross I am willing to bear."

Hermione took a step back as if hit physically. A deep pain exploded from in between in her ribs, a hole expanding across her chest, suffocating. She had always known about Mycroft's calculating personality, that he would manipulate and use anyone in order to achieve what he needed. Up until that moment, they had both needed the same things and she had been an important part of his toolbox. But maybe Mary had been right, maybe she had trusted him too much. And now that Mary had shot Sherlock, and Mycroft had been the one orchestrating the heist that had caused it, she did not know in whom she could put her trust anymore.

"I…" She was struggling to catch her breath. "I won't tell anything to Sherlock, or Mary, or John because not even all the security services in the world could protect you if any of them knew all of this was you. Because now we have bigger things to care about. Magnussen… He's going to come back, and I don't know if he'll be coming to get you or Sherlock or the entire damn British Government, but whatever he'll do, it will be over for Mary. I promised her years ago that I would protect her, and that's what I am going to do."

"She almost killed Sherlock."

"I KNOW!" The words burned in her throat, the cry tearing her vocal chords apart as much as Mary's betrayal had. Tears and anger and worry mixed together in the lump that made it hard to speak. "My best friend almost killed the man I…!"

She stopped herself short, but Mycroft had already understood her confession, and his face contorted in a cynical expression. "Sentiments are not an advantage. Having such affections for Sherlock Holmes? This hope you maintain of turning a drug addict into something more than a brain is very unwise." She looked at him, surprised. "Please, darling. You, leaving Baker Street, and never again coming in contact with him after practically being joined at the hip? Sherlock is his brain, Hermione. Do whatever you need to do for Mary, but Sherlock is not — nor will he ever be — what you need him to be ."

She turned to the door, but before she left, she looked back to the man.

"Fuck you, Mycroft Holmes."

* * *

Back at St Bart's, John and Mary were in the waiting room, hand in hand. When John saw Hermione, he shot straight up while she took her coat off.

"So, any news?"

"Sherlock is about to be moved to a private intensive care room, and then we will get to see him." John looked at her with a small smile and then continued. "Mary and I were just discussing that. We didn't know Barts had private rooms."

"They don't. Mycroft probably paid a call to the director." She left her coat on one of the waiting seats. "By the way, he says Magnussen is not suing Sherlock."

"He isn't? Why?"

"Who knows, John." She looked intently at Mary, who deviated her gaze. "But I am afraid this is not the last we've heard from Magnussen."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Well, I am off to talk to the porters, Sherlock should be here already. Be back in a second."

He left both women in silence. Hermione was looking at Mary, but she was not meeting her gaze back. The witch looked around, making sure they were alone before she started speaking.

"I want to say I forgive you, but I really don't. Not yet." Mary looked up and Hermione sighed. "But I think I understand why you did what you did. And that's all the comprehension I am capable of right now." Mary nodded slightly, but Hermione was not done. "That being said, I want you to bear this in mind: Sherlock will wake up, and you will have exactly the same problem again because I won't let you alone with him, not after this. If he thinks John is in danger, no matter how hard you try, he will tell John. Or I will."

"Would you?"

"I promised to keep your secret as long as it did not interfere with our lives. But it has, and we need to face it." Mary was about to retaliate, but Hermione cut her off. "I think you don't understand the position you are in right now, Mary. This is not even about what you or I or Sherlock can do. Magnussen is out there. He is not giving up, he still has your information, and whatever he wanted, he still does. You need all the help you can get. What you did, that was a hit and miss. He has probably doubled the security, upped his barriers. So we need to think. Because you cannot pull a stunt like that one again. Nor can Sherlock for that matter."

"I can't let John know. He would hate me."

"Well, think quickly, because you have no choice. Do you think that asking Sherlock nicely would solve anything?"

Mary let herself drop into one of the chairs. Unconsciously, her hand covered her growing stomach.

Hermione sighed and took her coat. "Give my regards to John, and tell him I'll come tomorrow first thing. We'll work out a schedule for staying with Sherlock."

Without looking back at Mary, Hermione left. As she walked down the hallway and out of the building, her mind was far away from the hospital. In particular, it was on a small case inside of Sirius' safe. The case she only took when there was an ongoing mission, and remained locked under normal circumstances. But these were no normal circumstances. Charles Augustus Magnussen was too much of a threat, for either Salem or Agent Black.

It was time for Hermione Granger, War Heroine, to come back.


	17. His Last Vow, Act III: Action

Hello all! Here is the third chapter of His Last Vow. This is the second chapter being betaed by nightgigjo and I absolutely love each and every one of her suggestions. Just by how she sees something I am learning so much, I am excited to see how the next chapters turn out.

As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed or reviewed the last chapter.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 16: His Last Vow Act III, Action.**

"That woman is spitting."

Hermione took her eyes off of the page and looked up at Sirius. He was nibbling on a toast while shuffling through the five different newspapers on the table, a mischievous grin on his face. Earlier that day on her way back from the hospital, Hermione had spotted Janine wearing a deerstalker on The Sun cover. She had taken a look around the newsagent and realised it was not the only one. Sherlock related quotes were in every printed tabloid. Not knowing what came over her, she had bought one of each and brought them home with her. The one Sirius had picked up featured Sherlock on the cover, under a colourful, baiting title.

"Shag-a-lot-Holmes. It's funny."

She snorted and closed the page where Janine was giving a detailed description of Sherlock's endowment - a very accurate one, much to Hermione's chagrin. "You might think having a concussion would've messed up her memory."

Sirius put on the blandest expression possible and took another paper. "Well, according to the Daily Mail, it was 'unforgettable'."

"Hmm." Hermione narrowed her eyes at Sirius and he in exchange flashed her a dashing smile. He extended his hand, motioning for her to take it. She rolled her eyes but smiled and did so, feeling the warmth of his hands around hers. "How are we holding up?" he inquired gently.

"For the hundredth time in the past week, Sirius, I am fine."

He sighed. "Look, you know I trust your judgement, but it's just… Coming here all of a sudden—do not misinterpret me, I love having you around—but then Sherlock being shot, Mycroft cutting all communication, now this… I cannot help but think there is something bigger you are not telling me." She was about to answer but he held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. "I guess I am just worried. I just wanted to remind you that you have me, we are in this together. You know that don't you, pup?"

"I know." Hermione got up to kiss his cheek and hug him when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She separated from Sirius and took it out. A short, imperative message flashed across the screen.

 _Baker Street, now._

 _SH_

Sirius peered at her curiously. "Is something the matter?"

"It's Sherlock," Hermione replied. Her stomach twisted in a tight knot, and her heart doubled its rhythm against her ribs. "He's sent me a text."

"But that's impossible," Sirius frowned. "He's in hospital."

"I need to go."

* * *

When Hermione arrived at Baker Street, she took the stairs two at a time, shouting Sherlock's name. On the upper floor, she found only Mrs Hudson, sitting in John's armchair, nervously tinkering with a handkerchief.

Relief washed over the older woman's features as she recognized who had just arrived, and she stood up and enveloped Hermione in a desperate hug. "Oh! Thank God you're here!"

"What's happening? Where's Sherlock?" Hermione demanded.

"Oh, you don't know." Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth with her hands before briefly gesturing around. "Sherlock ran away! No one knows where he is, but he called John an hour ago and _he_ dashed off!"

"What? How?" Hermione exclaimed in a panic. "Sherlock is drugged! He's been on morphine for a whole week! Wasn't John supposed to be at the hospital with him?" She took her phone out and dialled Sherlock's number. "Have you called Mycroft? What about his boltholes?"

"Greg is on that."

As Sherlock's phone went straight to the voicemail, Hermione's fears morphed into something darker. In her mind, he had succumbed to pain—or worse, internal bleeding—and was unconscious in Merlin knew what back-alley of London—all while neither Mycroft nor John nor Mary had even bothered to made her aware of it. Tapping on her professional features, she looked for John's number and started getting ready to leave when she heard loud steps resounding against wooden stairs. She looked at Mrs Hudson as the door to the flat slammed open and John stormed in, enraged. Ignoring Hermione and Mrs Hudson, he went straight to the window. His breathing was shallow and superficial as if he were about to breathe fire any moment now.

"John, did you find Sherlock?"

He glared at Hermione after her question. Bared teeth, red face and fists balled so tight he would draw blood: he was beyond furious. John shifted his eyes from her to a point behind her, at the same time Mary came into the room. She looked sick and shook her head as she passed Hermione, stopping next to the fireplace.

So, that was it: the proverbial cat was out of the bag.

But Hermione had no time to think further as the sound of another pair of steps, slower and heavier, reached her ears. She rushed to the small landing, where Sherlock appeared, staggering. He was pale, winded, and although he was trying his best to not to show it, clearly in pain. His breathing was laborious, and he made no objection when she put her arm around his waist, helping him to stand upright. John paced towards Mary, looking murderous.

"Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?"

Not losing a beat, Sherlock interjected, "Yes." Mary gave a tiny nod of agreement, pursing her lips. "Good. Now we've settled that..." Sherlock continued.

John turned with the speed of a whip towards him, enraged. "SHUT UP!"

Mrs Hudson jumped, and left the room babbling about the neighbours, leaving the four of them alone.

"You!" John turned to look at Hermione, and she felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her shoulders. "You knew everything and still you introduced me to her. Hermione _bloody_ Black, MI6 agent with fucking _magic_ , Mycroft Holmes' trusted minion. I should have known better when you came into my life. And you!" He spun around to confront Mary. When he spoke, his voice and his face were a mask of barely-controlled anger. "What have I ever done ... hmm? ... my whole life ... to deserve you?"

Sherlock leaned towards Hermione, flinching with the pain of supporting his whole weight. His hold on her was becoming weaker by the second, and his skin looked almost translucent in the light of the kitchen fluorescents. She was not sure how much longer he would last without collapsing. When he spoke, his voice was low, and nothing like the commanding, authoritarian tone characteristic of the detective. "Everything."

John walked advanced on Sherlock with two quick strides. The unexpected speed of the movement, and his tight jaw and tense neck made Hermione's instincts flare up. She reached for the pocket of her coat, where her wand was hidden, while John addressed Sherlock. "Sherlock, I've told you. Shut up."

"But he's right, John." Hermione said, diverting John's attention. "Everything you've ever done has led you to this."  
Sherlock nodded and spoke again, quieter than before. "You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. You chose," he emphasized, "as flatmate a witch with PTSD and part of the best trained paramilitary groups the world has to offer. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel..." He stopped and closed his eyes for a second as if reaching for more air. "John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John grimaced briefly and then, his stare still fixed on Sherlock, pointed at his wife on the other side of the room. His eyes were shining, and his voice was full of suppressed tears. "But she wasn't supposed to be like that," he spat, and Mary lowered her head. "Why is she like that?

"Because you chose her," Hermione said. "Just as much as you chose us, as much as we chose each other."

John stared at her and Sherlock, for a moment lost for words. He then paced around the room, and viciously kicked the small table beside Sherlock's chair across the floor.

Sherlock straightened and slowly disentangled himself from Hermione. She let him go but remained standing behind him. "John," he said, "listen. You can be mad later, we've got work to do."

John had a small fixed humourless smile on his face as his eyes remained locked on his wife. After a long moment, he sniffed deeply and harshly and turned briefly towards Sherlock. "Okay, your way. Always your way."

John cleared his throat and took a chair from the table. He carried it toward the centre of the room, facing the fireplace in between Sherlock's chair and his own, and he addressed Mary for the first time.

"Sit."

"Why?"

"Because that's where they sit. The people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk..." He answered, in a tight, angry whisper, leaning towards her while pointing down to the dining chair. "…and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not." Sniffing, he walked over to his chair and sits down, adjusting the cushion behind his back.

Sherlock lowered his head. Taking Hermione's hand in his own, he hobbled to his chair and let himself down, while Hermione sat on the armrest. She briefly looked at Mary and gave her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. Mary was not stupid. Even if Hermione did not know everything about Mary's past, she knew her. And Mary would have realised by now that lying would be useless.

Mary slowly walked in between the chairs and sat down. She nervously adjusted her coat around her, dusting off the tops of her legs. Then, she turned her head to John as he looked back at her. Mary reached inside of her pocket and took out a pen drive, tossing it on the table. Sherlock glanced at it.

" 'A.G.R.A.' What's that?"

Mary looked briefly at Sherlock, but mostly she focused on Hermione. It had been a tacit, unspoken agreement between the two of them when the person she now knew as Mary arrived at her doorstep all those years ago. Mary wanted a normal life. She never told her what happened, and Hermione never asked. Mary withdrew her eyes and cleared her throat. "Er ...my initials. Everything about who I was is on there."

With a loud sigh, John snatched the drive from the table and shoved it into his left trouser pocket. He pulled himself into a higher sitting position on his chair. Mary addressed Sherlock. "How much d'you know already?"

Sherlock moved briefly in his chair, taking a sharp inhale of air, wheezing as he breathed.

"By your skill set, you are—or were—an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something; you've used your skills to disappear; probably you had some help with that. "He looked over to Hermione. "I presume that due to your friendship with her, part of the settlement was Mycroft's doing. You trust Hermione enough as to believe that whatever Magnussen has, it has not come from her."

Mary shook her head. "She wouldn't do that."

"Am I right on presuming she knows a big part of whatever is in that pen drive?"

Both Hermione and Mary answered Sherlock at the same time. "I don't." "She doesn't."

John shook his head as if he could not believe what he's hearing. He looked at Hermione. "You accepted her explanations and gave her protection without knowing what she was. Why?"

Hermione clenched her jaw. _What a hypocritical ass._ "Just for the same reason you chose to follow a drug-addict with a flair for dramatics and danger into whatever case comes up." She could see the brief smirk from Sherlock and Mary, while John looked at her perplexed. "Because I knew enough," Hermione continued, "and I knew the person she was. That was everything I needed to know."

John dragged his hand over his face, and she almost took pity on him. Despite being Sherlock's sidekick, the situation was overwhelming for any normal person. Sherlock, Mary, her. They were used to intrigues and secrets. But it was over the pay grade of a soldier.

"So, Mary… any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want..." Sherlock grimaced again, his voice tight with pain, "...extracted and returned."

Mary raised her head, shocked. "Why would you help me?"

"Because," Sherlock replied simply, "you saved my life."

John's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "...what? Sorry, what?"

"When I happened on Mary and Magnussen...She had a problem." He took a couple of noisy, strained breaths, bracing his hands on the arm of his chair and on Hermione's leg while addressing Mary. "More specifically, you had a witness. However, sentiment got the better of you. You used one precisely-calculated shot to incapacitate me in the hope that it would buy you more time to negotiate my silence. Because we were in the building, you couldn't shot Magnussen. You calculated...that Magnussen...would exploit the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police and then you left the way you came. But before, you phoned the ambulance."

John cut him off. "I phoned the ambulance."

"She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is eight minutes." Sherlock lifted his left hand and looked at his watch as a clatter of feet sounded up the stairs.

Two paramedics ran into the room with a stretcher. "Did somebody call an ambulance?"

John stood up, looking at them in confusion. Mary quickly raised and removed the chair. Sherlock, breathing heavily, raised his left hand. Hermione saw it shaking wildly.

The paramedic looked puzzled. "We were told there was a shooting."

"There was, last week ... but I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic." Sherlock was holding his left wrist with his right hand, his fingers on his pulse point. He took a sharp breath trying to push himself up, Hermione helping him. "You may need to restart my heart on the way." His voice jolted on the word 'heart' and his knees buckled. Hermione took all Sherlock's weight on her, while John and Mary hurried forward, as well as the paramedics. Sherlock groaned and lost his hold around Hermione's waist, who was doing her best to support him. Mary stepped back out of the way of the paramedics. They put their bags down on the floor near him and took him away from Hermione. Despite his pain, he stared intensely at his friend.

"John, Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life. More importantly, you can trust Hermione."

The paramedics laid Sherlock down as he whimpered, putting an oxygen mask on him. Mary and Hermione exchanged a look of concern.

* * *

He felt her presence before he had even opened his eyes. He had barely woken up, still in the semi-conscious state of coming out of sleeping, but her scent was already in his nostrils. The sandalwood fragrance of her to-go designer perfume impregnated the air around him. Smells were a powerful trigger, and he was remembering scenes that looked centuries old. The next thing he noticed were her hands, small and soft, enveloping his right one. When his eyes finally opened, he perceived her sleeping face lying on the bed. He tried to caress her hair, but a sharp pain went through his body, making him hiss. Hermione stirred and opened her eyes, yawning slightly.

"Hey," she said, sitting up and wiping the sleep from her eyes. "John is coming at 7. I am going to go to Mary's after. She has a midwife appointment." Sherlock frowned as if to argue, but Hermione stopped him before he could ask. "Our situation is complicated. I am mad about a lot of things. But…" she sighed and patted his hand, her thumb carefully tracing the veins that protruded against his skin. "I don't know, you are alive, she is pregnant, and I honestly don't know what to do with that information. And she's still Mary, my Mary. And she's terrified. Both because Magnussen is still out there, waiting, and because now she isn't the only person who's in danger."

His voice came raspy, unused. "She should've come to us."

"Magnussen has eyes everywhere, Sherlock. People like him… There's always something hidden. She might have seen that. But the point now is not how he got the information because that's not really important."

"I see." Sherlock extricated his hand from hers, steepling his fingers under his chin, wincing a little. "You are wondering why he chose Mary."

"Indeed." Hermione rested on her chair and smiled. "I shouldn't keep you talking, much less thinking."

"The data might have been out there but why would he use it? Why would Magnussen go to any lengths to bother with an assassin? He knows her, he knows what she has done, why risk it?" Sherlock ran his fingers over his mouth, deep in thought. "He might be a gambler. Everyone gets bored every now and then."

"Not everyone is you, Sherlock."

"I know."

"It was not a compliment." Sherlock looked at Hermione's smirk and lowered his head back onto the pillow, a grin on his own in his lips. "Magnussen only makes a move when he can capitalize on either the response or the mistake. But you need to rest now. I am afraid that we won't be working anytime soon."


	18. His Last Vow Act IV, Denouement

Well what a ride! Here is the last chapter (for now) of this story. I've already started writing the season 4 of the show but it'll be a while until all the pieces fit together. But don't worry! This fic will not be abandoned. And you might get an extra chapter after this one with the end of HLV and beginning of TST.

But for now, I'd like to thank my amazing, wonderful beta nightgigjo. Nothing about the last chapters would have been as good as they are if it wasn't for you.

As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed or reviewed the last chapter.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 18:His Last Vow Act IV, Denouement.**

The weeks and months after the fateful evening at Baker Street blended together, as the summer ended and autumn came with rains and thunderstorms, clouding the sky and tainting it grey. The weather, cold and dark, was a good reflection of the atmosphere around Hermione those days. She was no stranger to being in the middle of quarrelling people — another dubious perk of having been a member of the Golden Trio — but the situation of their little family was more complicated than teenage drama.

Alone in Mary's new rocking chair, she let herself melt into the cushion as though it was the first time in years she had sat in one. Closing her eyes, she could still hear the distinctive chatter of her inner voice dictating the list of things she should be doing instead of resting. Her usually tidy head had been messed up, as doctor's appointments, baby concerns and one too many shouting matches drowned any other thought she might have had.

The voice — a scratching, know-it-all voice that sounded so much like her 11 years old-self — was prompting her to get up and pack her suitcase. That should be easy enough, as she had never fully unpacked ever since she had moved to the Watsons'. She had had no other choice when, after Sherlock had left the intensive care unit, John had packed an overnight bag and moved into the spare room in Baker Street. Well, she _had_ had another choice. But she had always been a Gryffindor in everything but love affairs. And sharing a bed with an injured, drug-depraved Sherlock was a penitence she was not willing to go through. Besides, it would have provoked questions she had no answer for.

On top of her own problems, she had been tacitly chosen as the communication hub of their little family. From Mary's hormonal mood swings to John's anger to everyone's confusion, everything that seemed to go wrong was dumped onto Hermione's lap. Surprisingly, Sherlock had not added problems to it. In spite of the spells of irritability due to his incapability to work, he had been reasonably well behaved. Better said, he had been uncharacteristically quiet.

This had allowed Hermione to breathe and focus in the bigger picture in front of them. But what had been left unsaid between them lingered in the air whenever they were in the same space. She was halfway tempted to make him talk — especially because his silence was unnerving and frankly a bit creepy — but she never did. She had neither the time nor the energy to have that kind of conversation with someone that was doing his best to avoid any kind of discussion thereof.

Which is why, on one of the rare afternoons where the four of them were in the same room without exchanging reproaches, Sherlock had surprised them all with an impromptu invitation to spend the winter festivities at the Holmes' quaint cottage in Wiltshire. Hermione had agreed immediately. Regardless of her own sense of self-preservation, a nice holiday observing a happy marriage such as that of Margaret and Siger Holmes could be what John and Mary needed. And if the estranged couple had been having any doubts, Sherlock's convenient puppy eyes had made the decision for them.

Christmas Day found them in a scene that might well have been a postcard of the English countryside, including the smiling hosts. The guests were not as picturesque, as the eldest Holmes were offering biscuits to their creepily smart children, an assassin, a secret agent, Sherlock's junkie friend, and John. They had kept their smiles when Bill had starting recounting the last drug den he had "worked" at, and Margaret had given a playful scolding to Sherlock when he had tried to improvise a chemistry lab with household groceries. Merlin only knew what those parent had seen under that roof.

Hours later and after a small nap, Hermione had entered the kitchen and settled in a small window seat. Margaret was already getting the food ready and hustling around the central table while berating her eldest child, who had started complaining about the whole Christmas ordeal. Hermione gave Margaret a smile and took the cup of punch she was offering, briefly observing Sherlock reclined in his seat. He had returned to his quiet stance and had kept to himself, yet he was persistently following Bill around. Shaking her head, she looked through the window to the figure of John sitting outside in the front garden. He had something in his hands, his thumbs running along it over and over again.

 _John rushed into the living room, expecting to see Sherlock ready to send him off somewhere. To his surprise, Hermione was the one sitting on the black leather armchair, playing with Sherlock's phone in her hands._

" _Where's Sherlock?"_

" _Out. Lestrade picked him up an hour ago to go to a murder scene. Probably a four, but Sherlock had started drawing the plans for his own morgue in the basement if he didn't get out of this house so I had to intervene. He is probably looking for this now, but well, I had my reasons." She lifted the phone before leaving it on the table._

 _John shrinked his eyes and straightened himself. He cleared his throat._

" _John, please, sit." Her tone left very little room for argument, and although he let go an exasperated and angry sigh, he sat nevertheless. She looked at him, and John held her gaze until he sighed and went to Billy on the mantle. Lifting the skull, he took a pendrive out from under it and sat back, his fist firmly closed around the gadget._

 _John cleared his throat and opened his hand, showing it to her. "I haven't even plugged it in."_

 _Hermione observed the pendrive briefly. He had not read it, she believed that, but he had toyed with it for quite some time. The permanent marker had faded._

" _I haven't had the courage to do it."_

" _You don't have to, John."_

" _What if I want to know who I am married to?" His voice grew harder and louder._

 _Hermione took John's hand, and closed his fingers around the pendrive. "You are married to Mary Watson. To the intelligent, loyal, loving human being under all the layers that life covers us with." She smiled at him, but it was not returned. "We have all done things we are not proud of. I know it, you definitely know it. But it is up to us to correct our wrongs."_

" _She almost killed Sherlock. She had killed people."_

" _As have we. I am not justifying her actions." John cut himself from speaking, and Hermione continued, softly this time. "Neither am I justifying her motives. But I learned long ago that love is a vicious motivator and can make us do the stupidest things. And after a lifetime of heartbreak, lies and being used… Finding you was the best thing Mary has ever experienced, and Magnussen was threatening to snatch that from her. If it had been me, in her place… I don't how I would have done. We all like to think that we would have been rational and we would have thought about possibilities and whatnot. And maybe you could have, because that is who you are, John. But Mary? Me? Sherlock? You know him, you know how deeply he cares, even if he doesn't accept it. He'd have done the exact same thing. He'd do anything to keep everyone safe."_

 _Those words, at least, seemed to sink in. John closed his eyes while he pocketed the pendrive._

 _"Do you still love her, John?"_

 _"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," he answered, emotion intertwined in his words._

 _"After everything...Isn't that what matters?" She came closer. "You cannot change the problems of her past. You cannot deal with them, you cannot solve them. But what happens from now on? Well, that's up to you."_

* * *

The bucolic aura around the small garden outside the kitchen seemed to have seeped in around the Holmes brothers as they stood looking off into the distance. Each of them was holding a lit cigarette, both men exchanging the first real conversation they had shared since Sherlock's accident — or even before.

Mycroft took a pull on his cigarette and held it up, frowning and coughing. "This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in." He dropped the cigarette onto the path and stepped on it. Sherlock turned to mock him but he saw that his brother had stopped in the middle of his walk to the house, and was looking through the window. On the other side, Hermione was drinking her tea beside their mother, a smile dancing on her lips. Sherlock, startled out of his usual antagonism, observed his brother.

"You love her."

Mycroft inhaled deeply, and glanced at him. "Despite what you might think, Sherlock, I am not immune to the stings of love. I just prefer not to dwell on them." He paused and turned serious again. "After all, life is about choices."

Sherlock looked at him, impassive. "What does that mean?"

"It means, that whatever you do, be aware: there are consequences."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a warning, brother mine. Remember who she is, and more especially, who _you_ are. Casualties are not uncommon, and you do have a knack for perilous situations." Sherlock did not answer, and Mycroft turned away from him. "But we do have a thing in common, Hermione and I. Your loss would break our hearts."

Sherlock, who had just started to take a drag on his cigarette, choked on it. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!" he sputtered, bewildered.

Mycroft turned round and held out his arms a little. "Merry Christmas?"

"You hate Christmas."

Mycroft pretended to look puzzled. "Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch."

"Clearly," Sherlock scoffed. "Go and have some more."

Mycroft went up the steps, opening the door. Sherlock spared a look at Hermione, who was entering the room where his father typically sat reading his newspaper, still holding her mug. He did not know what the strange tug in his heart meant - ridiculous, he thought. A tug in the heart is an arrhythmia, not anything to do with the romanticized idea that love was somehow held in a pumping organ. And still he _felt_ it. He had felt it when he had been alone with her, so close he could smell her perfume. He had felt it when he had heard Mycroft, because something deep down in the darkest corners of his head told him her loss would also break him. He shook his head, he needed a clear brain. He took the last drag from his cigarette looking at the sky, closing his eyes, a gush of air ruffling his hair. Mycroft was always right.

There was an east wind coming.

* * *

John lowered Mary onto the sofa. Months later, he would remember that moment and think how quickly you forget your medical knowledge when it was your pregnant wife who was fainting. But in the moment he was about to call for help, Sherlock's voice resonated around the house, loud and clear.

"Don't drink Mary's tea. Or the punch."

John stared towards the door, where Sherlock was grabbing his scarf from the peg only to disappear again into the next room, where Mr Holmes was lying half collapsed on the sofa with Hermione by his side. Sherlock held a hand over his father's nose and detected breathing, steady and calm. Relief ameliorated the sting of guilt he felt more often than not these days. Moving to Hermione to the same with her, something about her peaceful face made him stop. She was exactly as the picture his eidetic memory had stored in his brain. He checked on her, and his hand moved on its own, one lonely finger trailing over her cheek. Her skin was also as soft as he remembered, and he could almost see the golden sparks by the sun on the brunette tresses between his index and thumb. In any other occasion, he would have been confident about his possibilities. But with Magnussen, this might as well be the last opportunity he had to be this close to her. He clenched his fist and turned around to the kitchen when he heard John's steps coming closer. His mother was asleep in the armchair. Mycroft was slumped on a dining chair with his head on the kitchen table, one arm protectively over his laptop.

"Sherlock?" John came in, walking past Billy, while Sherlock checked on his mum. "Did you just drug my pregnant wife?"

Sherlock was checking Mycroft's breathing. "Don't worry. Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

"I calculated your wife's dose meself," the young man confirmed. "Won't affect the little one. I'll keep an eye on 'er."

"He'll monitor their recovery. It's more or less his day job."

John stared at him. "What the hell have you done?"

Sherlock took a moment to reply. "A deal with the devil."

Realisation flashed across John's features. "Oh, Jesus. Magnussen, isn't it?"

John left the kitchen, and Sherlock looked down at his unconscious brother, prying the laptop free from where his hand were gripping it. John came back at the same time the sound of an approaching helicopter broke the quietness of the cottage.

"Ah. There's our lift." Sherlock said simply, and walked outside the kitchen to the small garden, John following him with his coat in hand. A helicopter flew low past the front of the house, landing on the grass field. John just stared at it, bewildered. Before he could ask, Sherlock addressed him tensely. "D'you want your wife to be safe?"

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous." Sherlock turned to the helicopter, speaking quickly, Mycroft's laptop safely secured under his left arm. "One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason. Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we've ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."

"But it's Christmas!"

"I feel the same." His smile faded when he saw John's expression. "Oh, you mean it's actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?"

"Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?!"

Sherlock was holding out the coat in his right hand. "Is it in your coat?"

"Yes," John replied tetchily, taking it from him. Sherlock smiled and started walking towards the helicopter, John following suit. "To Hell, then."

From the helicopter, John and Sherlock saw the imposing glass and metal structure of Appledore. In all its beauty, the house looked somewhat sinister, like a mousetrap. And of course, it was heavily guarded. The security detail was everywhere they looked, some of them with visible weapons, other presumably with them hidden. They landed in what John thought should have been the front yard in any other house, while he saw several men coming towards them. During the short flight, Sherlock had succinctly informed him that everything from the moment they arrived would be designed for two purposes: power and intimidation.

Sherlock had not been far off the mark, and even with his warning, John did feel the pressure of Magnussen's vast resources. From the men escorting them through the massive glass door into an inner garden towards the indoor lift, to the proportion and lavish of the building. Sherlock, on the other hand, showed no signs of being impressed.

They stepped out of the lift into a pristine white room. It gave an antiseptic impression, like being in a lab, leaving John with the unsettling idea that they might be just the rats — and Magnussen, who sat on the sofa drinking, was the mad scientist leading them through the maze. Sherlock stopped a couple of paces in front of the sofa while John stood several feet away from him. Magnussen nodded to his men, and they were left alone.

"I would offer you a drink but it's very rare and expensive." Magnussen drank and Sherlock sat to his right, keeping his distance. Sherlock sighed, and put the laptop between himself and the other man. He never looked at the Swede; his eyes were focused at some point behind John's back. Calmly, he crossed his legs and clasped his hands on his lap.

"It was you then."

John glanced over his shoulder. Projected onto a wall, there was the footage of Sherlock's and Mary's rescue of John almost a year ago. He turned and walked towards the wall, watching the images repeating in a loop.

"Yes, of course. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes."

"Mm."

"The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn't care if it was exposed, would you?" Magnussen had his eyes locked on the screen. Sherlock tilted his head, his mouth quirking in a sardonic smile. "But look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress."

John turned around and walked closer to Magnussen, his voice tight and furious. "You ... put me in a fire...for leverage?"

"Oh, I'd never let you burn, Doctor Watson." Magnussen sat up and put his glass onto the clear table in front of him. He looked at John again. "I had people standing by. I'm not a murderer...unlike your wife." The older man stood up and John stared at him grimly. While Magnussen walked over towards the wall, and sliding a finger across the glass, the footage disappeared. "Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well...apart from me." John tilted his head at him questioningly, but the side of Sherlock's mouth lifted in a small smile. "Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock's pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife…" He approached the couch again and sat down, looking at Sherlock. "...I own Mycroft. He's what I'm getting for Christmas." He held out his hand towards Sherlock. Without looking round, Sherlock shoved the laptop across the sofa towards him.

"It's an exchange, not a gift." Sherlock stood up while Magnussen raised his eyebrows at him. Sherlock walked towards John and then turns round again. Magnussen picked up the laptop.

"Forgive me, but..." He held the laptop to his chest and ran a finger over the back. "...I already seem to have it."

"It's password protected. In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson."

Magnussen grinned. "Only Mary Watson?"

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched lightly in confusion. Magnussen let out a short breathy laugh, shaking his head. He scratched the back of his neck and chuckled for a few seconds. John's mouth twisted. There was something not quite right in all this situation. He shot a brief glance at Sherlock. Eventually, Magnussen stopped sniggering. "You know, I honestly expected something good."

"Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop ..."

"...include a GPS locator. By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived, they'll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath." Magnussen looked at John. But he quickly changed his subject and intently looked at Sherlock. "But you are right, Sherlock. There are some things in this computer that _you'd_ find very interesting. If you knew, what kind of secrets your brother has…"

Despite the baiting, Sherlock continued with their wit battle. "The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it."

"Then why am I smiling?" He looked up at Sherlock and smiled a little. Sherlock stared at him thoughtfully. Before either of the pair could say anything, Magnussen stood up slowly, buttoning up his jacket. "Let me show you the Appledore vaults."

He led the others across the room and through the open glass doors of a study. He walked to the wooden doors at the side of the room and then turns back to the others, putting a hand on the handles.

"The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you _all_." The last word seemed to be loaded. He pulled the doors open, revealing a brightly lit room, empty but for a black leather armchair. Magnussen stepped into the room, and sat down in the chair. Sherlock quickly skimmed around the room, looking for a concealed door. But the room had no rug, no shelves or decoration. Nowhere to hide a trapdoor.

"Okay – so where are the vaults, then?"

Magnussen turned to John. "Vaults? What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building." He gestured around the room. "They're all in here."

John frowns and blinks. Sherlock's eyes are wide as if he is beginning to realise the truth. Magnussen leaned forward and slowly raised his fingers to touch his temple.

"The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don't you, Sherlock?" He smirked and Sherlock swallowed. "How to store information so you never forget it – by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes... " He did so, slowly lowering his head. "...and down I go to my vaults. I can go anywhere inside my vaults...my memories." He turned his head from side to side a little with his eyes still closed. "I'll look at the files on Mrs Watson."

Outside the white room, Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head a little, his lips pulled back from his teeth. John stared at Magnussen, watching the man raise both hands, his fingers flickering in front of him as if working his way through files inside an imaginary drawer. John cleared his throat, looking down with a humourless smile. He was starting to understand how Magnussen's mind worked.

Still flicking through the files in the drawer, Magnussen began humming idly to himself. "Mmm, ah." He lifted his right hand as if lifting a folder out of the drawer. "This is one of my favourites." He sat back in the chair. He moved his hands as if he is turning the pages inside the file. Sherlock lowered his head, a shocked look on his face, while Magnussen chuckled quietly. "All those wet jobs for the CIA. But this is not the most interesting cabinet of the room." He made a gesture of depositing the file back in the drawer and closing it, then turned slightly to the right. He put his hand flat, as if caressing a surface. "You see, I have this new one, shiny, polished wood… Recent acquisition. The papers inside still smell like new. There are some initials: H.J.G. Any ideas, gentlemen?"

Sherlock face went white, as did John's.

"Hermione Granger – or Black as she goes these days – a.k.a Salem for those in the MI-7." He opened his eyes and smiled. "You see, Mr Holmes, I had some…inside information about you. Someone that knew you very well, can you imagine who it was? Sadly, Moriarty did not know about this very particular person. But then, Mrs Watson shot you, and of course, I was keeping a weather eye on you. To my surprise, this exquisite brunette came barging in at the hospital, demanding to see you, almost knocking over one of my men."

The cheshire grin on Magnussen's face was demented and lascivious. "What a sight for sore eyes she was. The fire in her eyes was a sight to behold. And those wet clothes! I myself have revisited that view in a more private setting."

Sherlock stood there, his brain fighting against the fog of rage that was starting cloud it. He could not afford rage, he needed his brain clear. But he was finding clarity difficult to accomplish, when all he wanted to do was take the two steps that separated the two of them and punch Magnussen in the face.

"But my informant didn't have anything on her. Not a name. Not a photo. I admit, it was…careless of me, thinking Moriarty´s information was all there was to it, but well… You used to be 'the Virgin', if I recall correctly. Not anymore, I guess. So, who was this gorgeous woman who left the hospital and went straight to your brother's house? Maybe the Holmes brothers have finally agreed to share their toys?"

He chuckled to himself and stood up, closing his jacket. "I am an overachiever, always have been. The more information on you the better for me. So, I researched her. Her data was awfully protected, but again… Everyone has a price." The Swede went to his bar and poured himself a glass of bourbon. "As it turned out, to my delight, Hermione Jean Granger has so many secrets. So many big secrets... But this is not news for you, right, Sherlock? Nor for John, or Mary... And you know what happens to anyone that threatens their secrets. Does Azkaban ring a Bell, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock remembered then, a conversation from long ago. A lengthy explanation by the fire, after a nightmare, about a construction in the middle of the North Sea, aforetime populated by soul-sucking creatures. Although those creatures had disappeared, the prison was still the worst nightmare for magical folk, and the most fearsome punishment.

"It's all about knowledge," Magnussen continued. "Everything is. Knowing is owning. So, what to do with all this unexpected information? I place the pieces on the board, with one, shiny new, piece." He pointed to a chessboard. He touched the king with his finger, moving it from side to side. "Your brother is the king in this little chess play of ours Mr. Holmes, the master key to the British empire. You are the bishop, flanking the king, doing his dirty work. John Watson, Mary Morstan, Gregory Lestrade, all of them are nothing but pawns but... What is Hermione Granger?" He took the white queen, playing with it in his hands, and put the top of the figurine on his lips. "Oh, she is the Queen… You own the Queen, you can do whatever you like to the pawns. In the end, I did not even need Mary. All I needed was Hermione Granger, and then the rest of the pieces would fall like dominoes. The key to the government. So as long as I have this information with me, Hermione is mine, and therefore, so are all of you. I could even give you all the information on Mrs Watson, I don't need it anymore. I could ask you to lie on the floor and lick my shoes clean and you'd do it because the alternative... "

Sherlock's mind, for the first time in probably all his life, had gone blank. How could he had been so careless, so blind, so…stupid.

John reacted before he did. "So there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here."

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something... " Magnussen lifted his left hand and looked down at his watch. "... if I really need it...But mostly I just remember it all."

"But if you just know it, then you don't have proof," John insisted.

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to prove it – I just have to print it." Sherlock lowered his gaze, fully aware of how badly he had miscalculated. Magnussen downed the contents of his glass. "Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me. Oh! But before you get to jail, make sure your brother knows about who owns his little whore… Or should I say yours?" He tutted disapprovingly, then looked at his watch again, walking out of the room." Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly. And I can't wait to see you arrested."

John watched Magnussen go, then stepped closer to his friend and murmured to him. "Sherlock, do we have a plan?"

Sherlock was fixed in place, still looking down towards the floor of the white room, his gaze unfocused. He had been outsmarted, but not everything was lost. He had one last opportunity of keeping Mary, John, Hermione — and despite his reluctance, Mycroft — safe. He had no big brother, no Government to clean up the mess he had led himself and others into.

It was time for him to slay a dragon.


	19. A stolen minute

Small chapter for in between Season 3 and Season 4. I'd like to thank my amazing, wonderful beta nightgigjo. Nothing about the last chapters would have been as good as they are if it wasn't for you.

As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed or reviewed the last chapter.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 19: A stolen minute.**

In a small and dingy room, Hermione waited. The air smelled like dungeon, and the barely illuminated walls seemed to weep with humidity. The only sound was that of her fingers impatiently tapping on the metal table. She saw her own reflection on the one way mirror in front of her. Her hands were tapping impatiently on the metal table, and her eyes kept coming back to her watch. The seconds passed slowly.

Faint sounds came from the corridor outside and she sprang up out of the chair. The hinges screeched as the door opened. Sherlock, followed by a guard, passed through the doorway. His eyes looked sunken, and small traces of blood were still on his suit. He avoided her eyes, and focused on the handcuffs the guard was removing. The man told them they had five minutes before leaving them alone in the room.

Sherlock sat in one of the chairs, and for the first time looked at her. There were so many things she wanted to do. She wanted to scream at him, she wanted to kiss him, to curse him and to whisk him away.

More than anything, she wanted to save him.

Instead, she sat in her chair, facing him. Their time was slipping through their fingers, but neither wanted to break the silence. Speaking would make everything true.

Finally, Hermione gathered courage. "What's going to happen now?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, I am leaving on a mission. No return date."

 _I am probably not returning alive_. She nodded and left a shaky breath. He disentangled his hands and put them in the middle of the table, not quite reaching for her.

"We wouldn't have been able to stop him any other way, Hermione."

"You should've trusted us." Her voice was low, hurt. Barely above a whisper.

"He knew too much. After Mary's mistake, he would have never left us alone."

"I am not stupid, Sherlock. I know he needed to be stopped, but we could have thought of something, together."

"He knew too much about you, too!" He bared his teeth. "He knew about you, and you would have done any stupid thing."

"You should've let me decide!" She got up, smashing her hands on the table."This wasn't your fight Sherlock. You should've trusted me, you should have let us know!"

"I could not!" He looked up to her from his chair. "You would have done anything to help Mary. You would have put yourself on the line and I could not let that happen."

"Why?"

He paused briefly. "You know why."

"No, Sherlock, I don't. You tell me."

"I can't."

She felt a scowl sitting on her face. From the outside, it would be a cruel smirk with specks of disgust. "You are coward, Sherlock." All the bottled anger she had been keeping ever since the call she got from John was now simmering in her. "You can shoot a man but you cannot fucking speak about your feelings. Well guess what? This is the last time we see each other, so you might as well humor me."

"What do you want me to tell you, Hermione? I don't have words for this!" He stood up and rounded the table, gesticulating with his hands. "Everything I know is that I would have rather burned in hell before I let that monster continue slithering around. If exile is the price I have to pay for having release the world of him, then so be it."

"You don't have to save the world, Sherlock."

"I wasn't thinking about the world when I killed him."

She came closer to him. They were about to break, and she could not decide who was going to do it first. Sherlock tentatively reached for her hand and the contact with his skin was electrifying. The thought of not seeing his eyes anymore constricted her throat, and tears started welling in her eyes when she squeezed his hand. He remained stoic, but his pulse betrayed him. It was wild and fast, his finger returning desperately the gesture. A man grasping a lifeline. Except she could not get him to shore.

"I am leaving tomorrow. Midday. John and Mary have been called."

"Do you want me there?"

"No." He swallowed hard. _It is already difficult as it is._

The door opened again and the same man entered. Wordlessly he got to Sherlock and started to put on the handcuffs, but Sherlock's gaze never left her. She had seen that kind of look before, though not from him. When he looked at someone, it would be patronizingly, with eyes full of questions. But this - he was looking at her as anyone else would look at a work of art. Wanting to brand the image in fire on their mind, because a photo would not do it justice. It took the last jarred sound of the metal closing and the tug from the guard to break their eye contact, and left her dazed and breathless. The man drove Sherlock to the exit, both disappearing in silence into the darkness.

Only after they had left her alone in the room, with only the echo of their shoes in the corridor, Hermione realized she hadn't said goodbye.


	20. A new New year

Hello all! Here is the new chapter, covering the part between Sherlock getting on and off the plane. I am not planning on writing TAB for this fic, not now anyway. I am having a lot of problems trying to make sense of S4 and at the same time incorporate Hermione in the story without it being deus ex machina or being too "well, this came out of nowhere". But I just wrote the last chapter. It came to me earlier this week, and I just had to write it. And I have to say, I am extremely happy with how the end is looking. However, Chapter 21 might arrive in a couple of months.

A big big big thank you to my amazing beta nightgigjo, for putting up with my ridiculous grammar mistakes from late night writing. The wonderful results you are reading are in a huge part thanks to her.

As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed the last chapter. Especially those who reviewed! It is so nice to hear your words and know that what I write is read by you wonderful people. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

 **Disclaimer:** All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 20: A new New Year.**

Snow had started falling when Hermione arrived at Baker Street. Inside of the car that had driven her to Sherlock and back, she had seen London getting ready for celebrating the New Year, letting go of 365 days and starting anew.

She did not fail to see the irony.

Inside her pocket, her phone vibrated for a few seconds before stopping. She ignored it. After having had to sit through an interrogatory right after returning from the Holmes state, she did not want to know anything about the world. She had had to feign disinterest in front of Mycroft and two other people. To listen with a straight face about Sherlock's uncertain future while the pain was tearing her insides. After that, she had shut down those who had tried to contact her. And today, less than 24 hours away from Sherlock's impending exile, her phone had rung several times. She did not need to look at the screen to know who they were. Sirius. Mary. John. Even Mycroft had called once.

She did not want to talk to them, or to anyone for that matter. She had even ignored Mrs Hudson on her way up and had locked the door behind her, resting all her body against it. She hated the pity looks, even more for something that haven't even started. Not properly. She and Sherlock had been tiptoeing around the thin line that separated people who sleep in the same bed and fuck, but at the same time had not talked about what it all meant. She, who had sworn to never get herself entangled with someone with a hero complex again, had fallen in love. She could accept that much, even if it was just in the privacy of her room, away from questioning looks. She had fallen in love with the pompous, junkie, self-righteous brat that was Sherlock Holmes. The man that was all bravado and brains, but who had turned out to be the kindred spirit her soul craved, the challenge and understanding that came with a mind like his.

Hermione inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. She knew it was probably a figment of her imagination, as he had not been in the flat for more than ten days, but she could swear his scent was still lingering in the air. Smell was one of the most powerful memory triggers. A vague, cheesy thought of trapping it if she kept the windows closed flashed through her mind. She threw her head back, her skull coming into contact with the wood in a quiet thud. She didn't want to think like this. He was gone. That's it, the end. It was not the first time people had left her. She was more than used to loss. She shouldn't feel like this, so lost, so empty.

Still, demons she thought she had beaten long ago crept between the cracks of the walls Sherlock had so unwillingly torn down. It had been ages since the last time she felt the void sensation in the pit of her stomach. The dread of losing something you are not getting back. The certainty of it.

She wiped her eyes furiously and went to open the door to their – her – bedroom. The air caught in her windpipes. The big suitcase she had bullied him into not using had been pushed back towards the wall, the black slacks he had finally decided to leave behind were still over the undone bed. His cologne would be all over his pillow, and his sleeping trousers tangled in between the sheets with her underwear.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and closed the room again. She rested her forehead against the door, tears now rolling freely down her cheeks. Wrecked sobs rippled through her chest, leaving her breathless. Tomorrow she would soldier up, hide her tears and piece herself together. But she could afford to be weak now, tonight, alone. She would cry and scream, she would blame Mycroft and Sherlock and Mary and John and herself.

* * *

Hermione woke up drenched in sweat some hours later, her head buried deep in his pillow. The sun was filtering through the window, meaning that Sherlock was probably flying over Europe. She palmed the mattress for her phone, and instead of seeing the time she saw the dozens of missed calls, as well as different notifications from news outlets, Twitter, and every other kind of social media available to humankind. She opened one of the thousands of messages she had received, from Mary.

The face of James Moriarty was enough for her to bolt.

* * *

The security guard at the MI6 eyed her rumpled clothes and her shaky fingers curiously as she swiped her identification card. With her heart pounding, she navigated through the maze of corridors, until she saw him. Wary, dark eyes, pupils dilated in something she would later know to be drug induced. But alive. Alive, in his tailored suit and coat, ready for battle.

As if called, he turned to her. Blue met brown, and then a thought she never knew could be possible crossed her mind.

Thank Merlin for James Moriarty.


	21. The Six Thatchers, Part I

I know. It's been three months since the last update. But it has been incredibly difficult to plan and write how I want this to happen. First because Hermione it's not part of the original story, therefore I need to create a niche for her. And S4 it's so focused in Sherlock that the rest of characters are even more supporters. I hope I can make them justice.

Second, because S4 it's very complex, the characters, their interlinks, everything. Writing characters that are already created might sound easy (that's what I thought at the beginning) but if you want to make them "real", you need to put the work and try to understand them. What makes them tick. I've lost count of how many times I've seen the episodes, how many blogs I've visited, how many metas I've read. I think they make more sense now, but your opinions are deeply appreciated (especially because there are around 8 chapters left and I want to make sure to get them right).

That being said, thank you very very much if you are still reading this story. You have no idea what it means to me knowing someone is sparing some of their time reading my ramblings. As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed the last chapter.

A big big big thank you to my amazing beta nightgigjo. We have both been very busy (and as you've read a few lines up, I've been slacking), but she has tried to go through my incoherent thoughts about different parts of the next chapters, and that it already, a feat.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

 **Chapter 21: The Six Thatchers, Part I**

"John is right, you know. You are going on in spinning plates."

"Mhm."

Hermione lowered her book to look at Sherlock, sitting across her. His eyes remained downcast on the phone in his hands while he texted, seemingly too preoccupied to answer her. She took a deep breath and lifted her book again, trying to drown the sound of the keys.

 _Tap, tap, tap._ They - John, Mary, herself - had been trying to be sympathetic. The situation was delicate, and as Mycroft had said in so many words, Sherlock's sanity was of utmost interest for national security. He had let him play Miss Marple with Lestrade and Dimmock and Hopkins, running around London for the most ridiculous cases the criminal classes had to offer. But the carefree facade he had tried to portray was flaking, and everyone around Sherlock had started to notice the tells of his spiralling. His shoulders, always tense under the suit jackets. His sleeping patterns, non-existent. His eating habits, disastrous, reduced to coffee and chips. His almost crazed working hours, as he took every case that came his way. The phone had become an extension of Sherlock's arm. Only John had finally breached it to him, but he had ignored him.

 _Tap, tap, tap._ Hermione felt her patience thinning with each keystroke. She could stand a lot of things. Merlin knew she had experience: you don't go through seven years of friendship with Harry-short-fuse-Potter without developing a thick skin. Indifference, however, from him in particular, cut deeper than what she was willing to admit. Would the situation had been different, Hermione would have had more endurance. How could she, when the feeling of Sherlock's body on her own was branded upon her? He had been riding the last remnants of his drug-induced high when he had pressed her against him. His kisses had tasted like ginger, the fumbling of his fingers trying to get rid of her clothes had been clumsy but efficient. She remembered having uttered a few words before she found herself straddling him on his armchair. There had been no time for conversations: death and threat were the only things they had not been able to take off. From sitting room to bathroom to bedroom, everything had been a blur of hands and skin and sweat, and when she had finally fallen asleep next to him, she wondered if he would be there come morning.

He had not.

She had found him completely dressed on his armchair, phone in hand and laptop on his knees. She had stood in the kitchen for some minutes, but he had been set in avoiding her. Hermione had turned around then, shallowing her feelings because Hermione Granger was first and foremost, a soldier. Feelings were nothing in comparison to the threat Moriarty supposed, and for now, it had to be enough. It did not mean she was not utterly pissed at him, and outraged and frustrated, making her blood boil in her veins and her magic thrum. She was tethering on the edge, and that bloody mechanical sound was just getting her closer to it...

 _Tap, tap. Ping. Ping._

The text alert made her drop her book with a loud thud on the floor next to her. Sherlock did not even flicker, and that made her angrier. How dared him, to disregard her in such a manner? She strode towards him. Before he could react, she tore the phone away and threw it to the leather couch. Sherlock looked at her, but his face was impassive, his hands still frozen as if about to type on the air in between them.

"I was in the middle of a very important investigation." His voice was calm as he stood up to retrieve the phone.

"If it were that important, you'd be out there and not here."

He checked the screen again and tried to make it to the kitchen but she stood at the entrance. Sherlock tried to dodge her and she moved, blocking him again.

"What is the matter with you?"

"I could be asking the same, Sherlock."

He blinked twice, speechless for a moment. "Sherlock, there's a psychopath out there, you - _we_ \- cannot afford the path of self-destruction you are set on."

He took a step towards her until they were barely inches away. She had to tilt her head back in order to keep looking at him and not his chest, and Sherlock, in turn, crooked his neck to keep their eye contact. Her body betrayed her: her breath hitched ever so slightly having him this close, and her eyes diverted to his lips briefly. He looked at her, and his voice had the sharpness of a newly sharpened knife.

"I've always been like this, Hermione."

Hermione tried to reply when his phone rang. He did not wait for her to answer and was already talking to the person on the other side, trotting down the stairs, when she let go of the air she was holding. And like that, she was alone.

* * *

The dimmed lights were giving her a headache as Hermione tried to concentrate on the last mission report balancing on her knees. Mycroft's office had never been cosy or inviting, but the lack of illumination made it almost sinister. From her seat on the only not-functional piece of furniture, the old brown armchair, she eyed Mycroft. He had lost his jacket a few hours back when they started working, and his tie was askew from when he had tugged at it. With his head bent over a file, she could see more clearly the wrinkles starting to creep around his eyes and forehead. The evenings were when the marks under his eyes were more prominent, as was his necessity to reach for a smoke. Magnussen and Moriarty and his brother had aged his years. A sharp pain on her temple made her close the lid of her folder and threw it on the table. Mycroft gave her a disapprobatory glance but was already digging in his drawer. Taking a foil pack, he gave it to Hermione and then piled the folders together, finishing their job for the day. Hermione smiled, which he tried to return, but his grin was barely that. His smiles never reached his eyes lately.

Anthea came in with a tray with tea and biscuits, and Hermione swallowed one of the pills before taking a large gulp of Earl Grey. The taste of bergamot was always comforting, reminding her of home. They shared their teas in silence. Mycroft attempted to start a conversation several times, however, he later decided against and had a sip on his tea instead. His question came with her last bite on a piece of pie.

"So… How's the situation back at Baker Street?" Hermione gave him an incredulous look. "My cameras only go that far, and Sherlock had become quite proficient in discovering them."

The woman thought carefully about what she was going to say, her mind going back to their last conversation - if you can even call the two sentences they exchanged, a conversation. "Sherlock hasn't properly talked to me yet."

"I had thought-"

"You might be luckier if you asked John." Hermione cut. She did not need Mycroft's petulance of reminding her how unfit Sherlock was in relationships. "But you know your brother, you know how he can be."

"Manic, tiresome, rude…" Mycroft sighed. "I know."

He stirred his already cold tea, absentmindedly. His eyes lost in the depths of his cup. "Have I ever told you the tale appointment in Samarra, Hermione?" _Strange change of subject_ thought Hermione, but she did not answer. Mycroft continued. "Sherlock did not like the ending when he was little, so he invented a new one. The merchant avoided dead and then became a pirate." A smile, a real, sad smile flashed across his face, then vanished. Hermione saw then: Mycroft had been young, and he had been the older brother of his baby brother before he had become the big brother of a whole country. "Everything was easier when all he wanted to do was play pirates and run around with Redbeard."

Mycroft stood up and walked to the floor-length mirror, her eyes following his movements. There was something at odds about his behaviour. About the fact, he had mentioned Redbeard, now of all times.

"Of all the enemies truth is by far the worst." His voice was slow, lacking the strength it normally carried.

"Who said that?"

"Only lesser men quote others, Hermione."

"What are you trying to tell me, then?"

Mycroft turned around. He came back to his desk, his fingers tapping on the surface as if trying to put an order in his head. He leaned back, his hip resting against the wood in front of her. "There are demons beneath every path we walk, Hermione. You know that better than anyone. Ours… my own…I've been shielding Sherlock from them for as long as I've been able to, but I am afraid…. They might be calling to our doorstep. I am afraid Moriarty's magic trick it's just the beginning."

"Do you know something Sherlock doesn't?"

"I know plenty Sherlock doesn't." He looked down at his hands. "The things I've hidden… Sherlock is always hanging by a thread, I don't want to be the one cutting it."

"Mycroft…"

"I can't help Sherlock, Hermione." His voice raises an octave. "Not now, not with this. I always knew there was a possibility when for all my power I wouldn't be able to hide from the truth. If the reckoning has come… I need you to stay by his side. I know what I am asking, and I know I've already stretched your willingness more than either of us is comfortable with."

Hermione watched how his eyes glistened under the lights. She reached for him, and she took his hand in hers. He was freezing. "If whatever is coming is that dangerous…"

"I need time, Hermione. It's all I ask for. Time so I can clear my head and deal with the problem, and then maybe if I am lucky, start atoning for my sins, without involving Sherlock. That's why I need you to keep this private. Just you and me." He fully took her hands, intently looking at her this time. "The truth is, there is no one else in this world I would trust Sherlock's life but you."

Then, he did something he had never done before. He kneeled by her and looked up to her. Giving himself up, putting himself in a position of weakness, offering her the power he held so tightly. Then it struck her: this was as close as Mycroft will ever get to beg. "I know I've disappointed you plenty of times, but I need you to know, everything I've done in this life, it has been for him."

"I know, Mycroft."

"You must understand it." There was an urgency in his voice that was enough to break the hardest of hearts. "If you ever held any kind of affection or trust for me, please, Hermione, use it know. Let me handle this. I promise I'll tell you everything, if you ever want to share the burden, in due time."

She nodded and deposited a kiss in his forehead. He allowed her, and she had the feeling she was not the only one shedding tears behind closed eyelids.

* * *

Thousands of miles from them, in the middle of the North Sea where only a few trawlers wandered in search of fresh sturgeon, a woman sat in front of a computer. Her brown, wavy hair cascaded down the back of the chair, unkept and unbrushed, and flattened where her head laid against the leather. Her otherwise attractive face - high cheekbones, proportioned features - was obscured by the coldness her deep blue eyes. Her fingers fiddled with the keyboard, rewinding the video a couple of minutes, and stared at the footage on the screen, timestamped the day before.

A man entered the room, leaving a roasted dinner on the table. The clank of the plate on the glass surface seemed to not have perturbed the woman, but as soon as he turned around, she threw the stone paperweight to his head. The man fell, his blood trickling from the wound where the paperweight had landed. The other man in the room, back against a corner, made a choked sound but did not go to help him. The woman watched the blood pooling on the floor, bright red against the concrete. It was never like the movies those idiots made. They pictured blood despite had never seen it. How it left the body, not splattering like an explosion, but like a river, slow, calm. If he would have been looking at her, she could have seen the exact moment when the blood loss became too much in how his eyes would die. _It was fascinating_.

The phone on the desk rang, breaking her observations. She hated being interrupted while observing. "It's him."

The man in the corner was right, it was that time of the week. She stood up and gestured for him to sit down.

"You know what to tell him, Mr Malik. I don't have to explain to you how important it is dear big brother doesn't suspect anything, do I?"

"No, of course not."

She gave a sickeningly sweet smile, only to disappear in the blink of an eye. Why would people feel safer with someone that smiles, when it was so easy to fake? _Idiots._ She spared the last glance to the face of the woman on the screen, and then walked towards the door, her bare feet crossing over the blood and leaving red footprints behind them.

* * *

Beth


End file.
